


in the dark we travel

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, First Meetings, Hurt!Geralt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt: Spaceships, Roach is Weird, Sensory Overload, Sleep Deprivation, The shady side of the galaxy, bamf!Jaskier, sci-fi tech, space travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25730215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: “Witcher!”The Bard.Geralt stops. He doesn’t turn around. “Few know to call me that.”The Bard circles him and grins. “Ancienthunter is a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. Witcher is more of a statement— a strange word for a strange profession; as old as the beasts you’re hunting.”HIATUS UNTIL POST-CORONA. My housemate tested positive, I'm fine atm, but I'm not putting energy in bigger projects until the world makes a little more sense. Might post ficlets, might not. Who knows!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 213
Kudos: 219





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What would happen if you take scifi and witcher lore and mash it together? You create one of those big explosions in space that somehow do have sound and leave me, a humble fic writer who did not ask for this, drowning in ideas. I've way too much lore for this fucking one shot and would love to know if anyone actually is interested in an sci-fi au for these two. It'd probs be a big project and I'd need all the encouragement I could get.
> 
> Perm/temp mod system inspired by the amazing and best sci-fi fic of all time: Chaos Out Of Shape by Quoshara and speakmefair. Please read it. It's the best.

The stench of the holding bay almost makes Geralt turn on his heel. 

It burns through his nose, coming in waves so overwhelming they should’ve been visible in the air. His senses are a dubious gift as he does not only smell it long before anyone else, but can distinguish individual notes within the cacophony of abomination. The acidic sharpness of cheap hovercraft fuel; the rot of biological waste; and then that sickly sweetness of pink oil, a byproduct from the favourite spirit boosters of all the rich kids and trip tourists partying up above. It’s the most prominent smell by far and it makes Geralt want to gag. 

Intergalactic travel on this side of the Tenements is always a gamble. 

Jackpot would be a merchant ship, where at least the conditions have to be sufficient for whatever cargo is on board. The fact that this usually results in better living environments for the stragglers sleeping between the boxes is entirely incidental. All in all, a good deal for everyone involved— except for Geralt, sometimes. Most merchants have no desire to have him on their ship. Luckily most are scared enough to let him anyway. 

A draw— earning back your bet — would be a scavenger ship. Though sleeping among scavenged ship parts and stolen goods is less comfortable than proper cargo, the experience at least comes with a sense of adventure. Playing cards with pirates; fist fights between mercenaries; drinks with old timers. For many the opportunity would be once in a lifetime. The drawback, of course, is becoming accessory to whatever crime the scavengers end up committing during your stay. And Enforcers don’t give one shit whether you sat in the cargo hold or shot the blast cannons yourself. Geralt has enough problems to keep track of to enjoy being blamed for other people’s crimes. Scavengers are insufferable, as a whole, but the most annoying are the ones that get caught. 

So, in a sense, it is only fair Geralt loses the gamble. He’d been complaining about a win or a draw anyway, and the universe does so like to remind him there is no one smiling upon him. He ran out of luck years ago. 

The smell only worsens when the great metal doors open to the loading dock, and the familiar bright orange of a Garbagecraft is revealed. 

Various levels of frustration, despair and anger are voiced in groans and clicks. The crowd stops as a whole, yet unwilling to accept their collective fate. Roach’s ears flicker at the unrest, her two right front hooves scrape at the metal flooring in agitation. 

Geralt pats her neck, careful not to get sliced by her sharp mane, and shushes her. “It’s alright. Shh. Good Girl.” 

Some of the would-be travellers— two Pervuvians, a Human and a Sketh — push their way through the crowd and gang up around the dock boy who had led them here. They begin to chow him out in various languages, but Geralt catches enough to get the gist. _Give me back my money or you will feel my wrath,_ _insert threat specificities here._

As they become more and more creative, Geralt sighs and gives a quiet command to Roach to stay at the edge of the crowd. She makes a noise that Geralt chooses to interpret as agreement, rather than the frustration regarding her current situation that it probably was. 

Geralt edges around the crowd to get a better look of the situation, his hand hovering above the hilt of his energy blade. The Pervuvians are part of a larger crew, seven total, standing off to the side with their limbs crossed. The Sketh is carrying a T-1 Blaster openly, which means she’s likely got something even more illegal under that travel robe of hers. The Human is an older man; his eyes almost folded away into his wrinkles. Not a threat at face value— which isn’t a whole lot, in Geralt’s experience. He’s proven right when he activates his perm-mod, focusing his vision, and the blue and white overlay lights up around the presence of an illusion. 

He only has to strain his eyes a little before the glimmer dissipates and Geralt can see the true form of the being looming beside the dock boy. A Dizan, neon glyph tattoos and all. 

Geralt suppresses a groan, and grabs the handle of his silver sword instead. 

Even if he’d wanted to consider suffering teleportation in favour of two weeks sleeping among trash, the choice has now been made for him. The duration of the travel should be enough to see if this one dabbles with the ways of the Ancients, and how far they go if they do. 

Though, if they’re willing to kill a kid out of frustration, Geralt has his answer too. 

The shouting gets progressively louder and begins to attract more people. The whole of the Pervuvian crew has joined by the time Geralt manages to reach them. 

It’s not that the crowd tries to block his path — the moment the flash of his eyes reaches theirs, most have the common sense to cover and step aside — there is just nowhere they can go. The whole platform has started to fill up as more travellers climb out of the drainage pipes. And the other half of the dock is claimed by the large containers, being loaded on one by one. 

And yet, the immature show of aggression has managed to claim a small open clearing in the middle of the platform, as people press into each other trying to get outside of the blasting zone. Quite literally, as the moment Geralt breaches this unspoken border, the Sketh puts her hand on the trigger. 

The boy goes pale. “Please! I do not have it. You must go to Kestra, the dock master, if you have a complaint.” 

Geralt flickers a quick look to the Dizan — still frustrated, but passively so, eyes sparking with interest between the Sketh and the boy — and assesses his options. He grabs his energy blade and activates it. 

It doesn’t make a sound, but the purple glow should be obvious enough to the Sketh once he— 

“Friends! Please calm yourselves.”

A young man slides in front of the boy— in front of the blaster — hands held open in a placating gesture. 

Geralt swears internally and deactivates his blade. The Sketh has her hand on the trigger, but hadn’t aimed the blaster. Even if she’d pulled while Geralt subdued her, it would’ve gone wide, cascading over his head. 

But the man, standing taller and a step closer to her, has it pressed right against his heart.

He doesn’t seem to be aware of this fact, smiling brightly at the Sketh and then at the crowd at large. It seems so out of place— so confident, that even the Sketh is taken off guard and takes a step back reflexively. The barrel is no longer touching him, but the shot would be equally deadly. 

The man is handsome, though garishly colourful compared to everyone in the vicinity. He looks like he’d gotten lost on his way to Erilisis Boulevard and somehow ended up in a sewage-cum-space station, of all places. 

Despite his appearance, he carries himself with ease, even familiarity. There is no sign of an illusion to explain his reckless confidence— Geralt checked. If this is all an act, the only thing the man is playing is himself. 

“I understand that the recent actions of our honourable Tin Men have us all on edge, as it is their overbearing application of the law that has many of us seeking out new sights in the first place!” 

A few murmurs of agreement rumble over the crowd. 

“I assume that most are not here out of free will, but rather out of necessity,” the man continues with sympathy. “We are leaving behind friends, family, business— life. No one should expect any of us to be happy, never mind calm.” 

Nodding. Someone whistles, others hum. They’re listening. 

The man’s face changes, his passionate expression becoming wry. “And look, I also am not eager to sleep among the left over drab of Zevos’ finest.” He pauses and then continues with a sly smile, “Never mind with all of you stinking up the place.” 

Some smile, some even _chuckle._

Geralt has to work to maintain an expression of neutrality. 

The Sketh still has her hand on her blaster, but her finger has slackened, as if she’d forgotten that she was about to pull the trigger. The tension of the crowd at large is easing; the sharp border around the clearing is melting away. The man, with a few words, has them enthralled. 

The man seems to be aware of this, because his attention slides off the crowd in a split second. His posture changes. From the wide and tall stance of a stage performer, he slackens slightly-- pulls in and leans forward, almost intimate. He’s looking at the Sketh, his voice low and almost gentle, but there is an order hidden under the kindness. 

“Come, _scivan._ I know the stench is worse for you, but this might very well be the last ship of the day cycle. And with the Enforcers dogging the Magistrate’s tail, the whole operation could be shut down any moment. We cannot afford a delay, none of us can.” 

And that is when Geralt realises the man does have a perm-mod after all. Not an illusion patch like the Dizan, but a rarer and much more volatile augmentation: a speech-mod. 

Where temporary speech mods might translate your words for a day, or make your singing slightly more passable for single performance, a permanent speech mot does not add anything to the user. It just enhances what is already there. 

If you’re good— if you are truly a master of tone, words and whatever fucking else comes with skilled communication, the Ancient Ways are nothing in comparison. Violence is obvious. Ancient crafting leaves traces of some sort behind, even if it is just merely the use of something else. But talking— speech, it takes nothing, it leaves nothing. It is as fleeting as a memory, an experience. Done well, you don’t even remember it, because you don’t know you’re being convinced in a manner more potent than normal interactions. 

At least, the ones Geralt has come across prefer an art of subtlety. This man, quite clearly, is more like the ones who wear their speech mod openly, shimmering on the back of their necks, some curving down to their throat in graceful lines. Entertainers, singers, writers; all whose persuasion and manipulation is seen as harmless— made safe in the illusion of fiction. 

And yet, despite the apparent taming of danger, they have been given the same title of a specialized class that once lived on the planet called Earth. Those who were able to leverage their seemingly frivolous talents to gain access into the highest courts; become confidants of Kings while serenading them to sleep. 

Bards. 

Geralt has always found it ironic. To expect these people to only use their powers for entertainment and laughter, named for a group that ostensibly did the same more than a millennium ago, while conveniently forgetting an important fact. 

Most Bards were spies. 

Gerat carefully sets his thoughts aside when the Bard moves. His focus returns fully to the situation at hand. 

The Bard is reaching out to the Sketh, slowly, carefully-- recklessly, idiotically, completely careless of the danger, of setting her off. 

She flinches when the Bard’s hand touches her fur covered arm— the one holding the gun. 

Geralt takes a careful step closer. His hand hovering over the activation pad of his blade. 

He’s quiet, but the Bard clocks him— a glance, eyes unwavering, before he focuses on the Sketh again and says, low, “Let this go.” 

There is a breath. Geralt waits. 

“Fine,” she spits out. “But I claim best bunk.” 

She isn’t looking at the Bard’s face— doesn’t catch the relief before it's drowned out by a companionable smile and a hint of satisfaction. Geralt does. Geralt sees all of it. 

The man’s expressions are as garish as his clothing. He is too animated-- too _bright_ \-- to belong in a place like this. Amongst people like this. These are people who lie through suppression, not misdirection. Even if it's all false, it is out of place. But it isn’t-- false. Parts of it are genuine, and Geralt doesn’t think it's a mistake. The Bard doesn’t mind people seeing him. It’s disconcerting. 

The Bard claps his hands together and turns back to the crowd. “You heard her, the show is on the road!”

As if on cue, the platform shifts and rumbles. Walkways start to extend from the edges toward the sides of the ship. Doors shift open with heavy sighs of pressurised air. The dock boy takes the distraction to get the fuck out of dodge, though he throws a grateful gaze to the Bard as he slips away. The Bard’s smile goes incrementally brighter. 

“Now,” he says, raising his voice, “Those with smell sensitivities should have priorities to the upper decks. Let’s show those fuckers we aren’t as inconsiderate as they make us out to be, eh? Behave and you might be treated with an entirely free performance of Craven Roses!” 

At that, the Bard bows to a scattering of applause. The promise of potential entertainment brings a measure of good cheer among the passengers— any travel without warp-speed is an exercise in boredom regardless, but the trip between Zevos and the outer ring of Xadan is especially notorious for it. After the purple glow of the Zevos System is left behind, the following week of utter darkness is enough to drive anyone cabin-crazy. The appearance of Xadan eventually brings light. It isn’t pretty, but it's at least something. A measure of progress, watching Meteor Border come closer and closer. 

The worst is never the dark, it's feeling like nothing is happening. That you’re moving, but will never arrive. 

Geralt shakes his head to himself. He can deal with that. He’s used to it— whether he is in a spacecraft or walking on solid ground. But most people aren’t. Geralt would prefer not to suffer through thinly veiled innuendos posing as a passion play, but the alternative might be even more tedious. He has a sense that this won’t be the last time the Sketh will become a problem. 

At least, for now, she isn’t his concern. He clicks his energy blade back on his utility belt and is about go back for Roach when a voice calls out—

“Witcher!”

The Bard. 

Geralt stops. He doesn’t turn around. “Few know to call me that.” 

The Bard circles him and grins. “Ancienthunter is a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. Witcher is more of a statement— a strange word for a strange profession; as old as the beasts you’re hunting.” 

Geralt snorts. “Funny you say that, Bard.” 

“Jaskier, and thank you,” the Bard-- Jaskier says grandly, seemingly unaware of how very much Geralt did not intend it as a compliment. Or maybe he did and doesn’t care. “What a twist of fate, is it not? Two men out of time, on the edge of the universe.” 

Geralt snorts and begins to walk.

Jaskier rushes after him, slipping deftly between people to keep up. “Wait!” 

“I’m not here for your tales,” Geralt says. “Find another audience.” 

Jaskier huffs and makes an affronted sound, but persists. When Geralt eventually breaches the edge of the crowd, he’s caught up, a little out of breath. 

“Come on, Witcher. Let me just— I’ve heard of the adventure of people like you and I was wondering—“ 

His voice cuts out and his eyes go wide, when Roach comes out of the shadows. Mouth agape, he stares. 

Geralt reaches out for her lead and turns his back on Jaskier. He’s not interested in seeing the inevitable terror— or, if Jaskier is as reckless as he seemed to be in front of a blaster, anger. Geralt puts a hand on Roach’s neck, knowing that one sign from him and Jaskier wouldn’t have a chance for either. Not that it would help his case. 

It’s quiet for so long that Geralt almost thinks Jaskier managed to retreat in complete silence, but when he turns, he’s still standing there, mouth agape. 

“I thought—“ he says, and there is no terror. “I thought they were extinct. I thought you— Witchers had hunted them all.” 

He isn’t afraid. He is awed. 

Geralt thinks of the busy stalls in Kae’r Mor, the gentle huffing, soft rumbling and kind eyes that follow you as you pass through the halls. Dozens of lives saved through secrecy, protecting a species deemed undeserving of existence, merely because some had used them in horrific ways. 

He thinks of Vesemir, furious, as Geralt took Roach from her stall. 

_—selfish. Your actions put all of them in danger, and you know it._

But one survivor shouldn’t — _can’t_ — be able to ruin it. He’s careful, he avoids the corners of the galaxies where they’re most known. Where they’re more than just a story. He can lay the blame all on himself: it shouldn’t be hard to understand one monstrous creature having bonded with another. 

He just hadn’t been able to leave her behind. Not if he wasn’t certain he’d ever be back. 

“Amaureen,” Jaskier says, quietly, startling Geralt out of his thoughts. To hear that word spoken in such a way— with wonder, is disorientating. 

“Does she have a name?” 

“Roach.” 

There is a stunned silence, and then Jaskier laughs. “Not what I expected for a creature straight out of legend.” 

Geralt shrugs. “She likes it.” 

Jaskier smiles and then looks at Roach again, hesitating. “Can I—“ 

“You can try,” Geralt says, gruffly. But he centers himself, trying to project calm— not trust, he can’t lie in this, but he shows her what he saw. Jaskier talking down a crowd, levity cutting through a knife through the tension. Light in a moment of darkness. 

Roach huffs and holds still as Jaskier’s fingers brush her snout. His eyes go impossibly bright, and his breath catches when Roach, unprompted, presses against his hand. 

“She likes me,” Jaskier says, too surprised to be smug about it. 

Geralt doesn’t respond— doesn’t disagree. He feels unbalanced, put off. None of this— none of this is going like it is supposed to go. 

Roach responds to his distress, stepping back with a huff. 

Jaskier takes his hand back, doesn’t press for more, and says, “Thank you.” 

As if that is something people say after touching an Amaureen. Geralt feels a headache brewing.

“Hmm,” he says, and tugs on Roach’s lead. They begin their walk to the farthest end of the ship. 

Jaskier doesn’t take the hint. 

“How did you find her? Have you had her long?” 

“None of your business, Bard.” 

“Jaskier, or Dandel, on stage,” he says blithely, “and okay, fine, but you have to understand. This is momentous. I’ve always known there was something off about all those tales. How could a bond-species suddenly turn against their riders? Why all at the same time?” 

Geralt makes a noise of warning. Roach’s mane bristles. 

“Okay, have it your way. Something else then.” There is barely a pause before he asks, continues, rapid-fire and passionate: “Have you ever encountered a hag? I’ve been hearing about one running a spirit bar in the Dekolijn but that could be a myth. Do they have the intelligence to do such a thing or are they more beast-like?” 

Geralt’s jaw tenses, glancing sideways to glare and growl— something, he doesn’t know what, because the moment he turns, he sees something else. 

The Dizan, watching them with interest. 

For a moment Geralt’s stomach drops— Vesemir was right. He should never have taken Roach with him. 

But then he realises that the Dizan isn’t looking at Roach. 

They’re looking at Jaskier with a considering look in their eye. 

Resignation falls like a heavy cloak around Geralt’s shoulders. He forces his expression in a blank slate and allows Jaskier to follow him, giving occasional one word answers like breadcrumbs, that lead him into the ship— away from that pale white gaze. 

As they walk through the bowels of the ship, bile in the back of Geralt’s throat, his nose burning, and a headache in full bloom, one thought circles around in the forefront of his mind, over and over: 

He should’ve gone with teleportation after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you read that. If you have questions, mood. Before I'm gonna throw myself into weeks of worldbuilding, I wanna be certain this is actually a thing I'm gonna write. The basic idea this AU would be that give or take 500 years ago, humanoids (humans, dwarves, some elves) fled the earth because the magnetic poles were going to be switching and you did not want to be there while that happens. 
> 
> But, when the humanoids sought refuge in space, they were not the only ones on board. 
> 
> Monsters, creatures, ghosts, ect have become a pest across the galaxy, courtesy of those annoying earthlings who didn't clean out their cargo holds in their haste. Witchers, or as they are called Ancienthunters, are the feared yet necessary. They're extensively modified humans (cyborg, you ask? hmm, who knows) who basically function as traveling pest control. 
> 
> Aside from monsters, sorcerers and mages found their own ways off Earth, and the universe's introduction to the "ancient ways" did not go smoothly. 
> 
> If any of that caught ur fancy let me know, because I have one GO wip in process, and another bunch of long fic ideas, and I gotta keep my workload to two. So it will either be this one, or any of my other ideas rumbling abt. Lemme know if you're down for gays in space!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where are you goin— really? This is where you’re going to stay?” 
> 
> “Didn’t ask.” 
> 
> “My judgements are always unsolicited and free of charge, and I think this is bullshit. You’re going to fall off of there, or at least break your back on that grate.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You yelled, I answer! Also I lied, I said I would post monday in some comments but I have no patience. I have 2 more smol chapters almost done so those will also go yalls way next week somewhere! There seems to be a connection between the yelling and me going feral and writing more of this, so feel free to continue ;)

Though Geralt has been on large ships often, there is something about Garbagecrafts that looms over you when you enter. Walking over the edge of the doorway is akin to stepping into the maw of a creature, a cavernous space opening up before in a tunnel, leading only to greater open halls. The bowels of the beast with thin walkways crawling up walls that reach 20, maybe even 30 meters. 

The echo doesn’t help matters. Even though the first three halls they pass are almost filled to the brim with labyrinths of containers, the sound of footsteps ricochets off the metal floor and comes back multiplied a dozen times over. It disorientates Geralt, the echo overlaying with actual sounds to such an extent that it is hard to know where anything is coming from. It will be better slightly further down, he knows, where the walls taper off to a humble 15 metres. 

Every Garbagecraft is built the same way. You have the smaller, lower level, where engines reside on one side, and the dangerous and toxic wastes reside on the other, guarded and secured. Then you have the second level, the one they’ve just entered, where the majority of the trash is stored in those endless halls of space. Some elect to spend their time there, in between the containers— mostly those who are able to trance or hibernate in some manner or another. A way to biologically skip the time. 

But for those who need some measure of utilities, the best bet is to come as close to the third level as possible. The crew eats, drinks and sleeps there. If you’re lucky, there are bathrooms and showers just in between the second and third level, for the lowest of the workers to use. 

The crafts are made to be manned for long periods of time. Geralt has heard of people who have been on a single garbage run for over three years. They go from planet to planet, picking up specific kinds of garbage that can be reused or destroyed in other parts of the galaxy. This one seems to be most focused on fuels— biological, chemical, quantisable, Geralt can smell all kinds —though they always have some bays open for more general waste that can be discarded off anywhere. 

Theirs is a service that goes beyond borders or politics. There have been so many planets and societies either destroyed or corrupted by their own waste, that there is an understanding among the galaxy that the disposal of materials is something that must be done with equity and generosity. No society is too small to have the right to ask a Garbagecraft coming to their docks. 

And of course, with any service that is for the good of all and has no motive other than necessity, the ships are perpetually understaffed. 

This is how they can carry people, as well as waste. For all intents and purposes, they all just got hired. 

“Are you going to claim a bunk?” Jaskier is saying, forcing Geralt to realise that he’s still walking beside him. “You’d have the right to it.”

“Hmm.” 

“That doesn’t actually illuminate anything.” 

Geralt shrugs. 

“You’d have to right to it. This place must be hell for you.” 

Geralt doesn’t respond. It isn’t that he’s wrong, but Geralt has no intention to wade into the utter mess that is the bunk claiming process. If you could call it a process. The Sketh will likely get her way, she’s shown her willingness to use her blaster in any manner she sees fit on the platform. But despite Jaskier’s idealistic declaration, the art of getting a bunk is much more about status than merely intimidation. 

There are rules in places like this— lives like these. Who is supposed to interact with whom. Where you can sit with, who you can drink with. There are three sizes of it: species, role, influence. Jaskier is going to be high up in all— humans tend to have the unerring ability to elevate themselves above others, even if it is just through sheer annoyance. His role as a Bard will gather him many accolades, as few people have an ability that is actually of use during their stay. And well, on influence. He’s shown his mastery of that on the platform as much the Sketh showed her volatile nature. Jaskier will have no trouble getting a bunk, nor gathering food, drink, protection, companionship, and all else you might need. 

Geralt, on the other hand— 

There is little consensus whether Ancienthunters even should be considered a species, rather than an augmented experiment with admittedly, some use to them. Their trade of killing the worst the universe has to offer earns them less than respect. Many believe even the proximity to those creatures leaves the hunters tainted and prone to corruption. Influence is a hilarious afterthought, not even worth mentioning. He could use his sword, or Roach, to be convincing, in some sense of the word. But there must be more than a hundred people down below, and the moment the crew hears of a wayward Hunter, terrorizing the people, he’ll be outside the ship’s walls faster than he can blink. 

He won’t get a bunk. That’s just the way it is. 

Jaskier is about to say something else when they turn a corner, and the last cargo hall opens up before them. 

“Oh, fuck yes.” 

The last hall is where most people congregate, only because that is where the main airflow system resides. The big blades of ventilators cast a damp breeze through the area. Horrible still, but marginally better compared to the labyrinths down the hall. The further wall also gives access to the third level, and with a measure of relief Geralt can see small neon signs of pointing arrows with shower and toilet symbols. 

But the best thing— the reason why Jaskier sounded so utterly delighted, is half of the hall is empty. There are a few containers stacked to the side, and three large piles of miscellaneous crap greet them besides the entrance, but other than that, they have about half a hover-hockey stadium all to themselves. 

“They must be planning to do a pick up at The Grand Station,” Jaskier muses, smiling. “Oh this is going to make it suck so much less. Look! There are even cots put out-- those military folding beds, and there is a bar! Made from empty fuel drums, but still. They must have had a lot of stowaways here before.”

“Running low on funds,” Geralt says. It's the only reason why they actually would be catering to their technically illegal passengers. It belies a sense of desperation. Geralt’s gaze casts around the area, wondering dimly if there are any repairs the crew has been procrastinating due to lack of cash flow. Last thing they need is for the water to stop running, or worse still, for the engines to. 

“Or,” Jaskier says, eyebrows raised, “They figured we would appreciate not sleeping on the ground.”

Geralt snorts. 

“Ah, you’re one of those. The world is never dark enough in your eyes, is it?”

“I’m not the one keeping you here,” Geralt says, low and without inflection. 

Jaskier laughs like he made a particularly good joke. “You say so, but there is something magnetising about that perpetual frown. How does he manage it? Is there a limit to one's ability to glare on a daily basis? Can you get stuck like that?” 

“If you are going to ask me to smile—“ 

“I have more self preservation than that.” 

Geralt tilts his head, makes a noise that could be construed as questioning. 

“She wouldn’t have actually shot me. Much too messy.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Risk assessment is something I am particularly good at.” 

_And yet you insist on talking to me,_ Geralt doesn’t say. 

As they walk, they’re coming nearer the open space where some of the travellers have already laid claim to a few of the cots. The Pervuvians have gathered about a dozen, laid them out in a circle, and are guarding them like dragons on a hoard of gold. A group of humans have set up a few closer to the makeshift bar. Two women, one with tight braids piled on top of her head and the other with long blond curls that must be fake, are already pouring drinks and cleaning plastic shot glasses. Yur and Decalons have gathered together, the neighbour species sharing their space much as their planets do, some even preening each other’s feathers and making quiet conversation. 

There are other little groups scattered around the area, and Geralt knows not to approach any. He stops at the last row of sporadically stacked containers. There are two that come from the wall on either side of a ladder, that leads to a small square grate hanging like a small balcony over them. It must have been once connected to a larger walkway, but Geralt can just see the haphazardly welded edges of it— maybe someone was too enthusiastic placing containers and broke through it. 

In any case, the space between the container stacks will serve as a nice place for Roach to stay, and she’ll stand vigil before the ladder. The grate won’t be comfortable, but it hangs right in the shadow— the rows of yellow industrial lights barely miss it — and from that height, he’ll be able to keep an eye on things. 

It takes Jaskier a few steps to notice that Geralt has turned right. 

“Where are you goin— really? This is where you’re going to stay?” 

“Didn’t ask.” 

“My judgements are always unsolicited and free of charge, and I think this is bullshit. You’re going to fall off of there, or at least break your back on that grate.” 

Geralt ignores him and folds out a water tray for Roach. He should have enough hydration packages for a week or so before needing to get tap water in the bathrooms. 

“Is being stubborn something they teach you or is it something innate.” 

Geralt shrugs. 

“I won’t be here if you’re gonna complain about not being able to sleep.” 

Geralt turns to him, looks him in the eye and says, “Good.” 

Jaskier throws his hands up. “I don’t know why I even— You know what. Fine. I’ll come back once you’re less—“ He makes a vague hand motion that encompasses Geralt’s general form, “— this.” 

“Good luck with that.” 

“Would booze help?” 

“Hmm.” 

“I’m choosing to take that as a yes because I desperately need some at this point.” 

“Sounds like it.” 

Jaskier makes another exasperated sound and begins to walk away. 

Geralt hesitates for a moment. Roach stares at him and then leans in to huff a warm breath in his face. 

_Fine._

“Jaskier.” 

The footsteps halt at once. 

“Yes?”

“Stay away from the old timer. Blue uniform. Wrinkles.” 

“What. Why?” 

“Just do it.” 

There is pause. 

“You’re not going to give me a straight answer, are you.” 

“Hmm.” 

Another, longer, silence. Pacing, and then a sudden chuckle. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that.” 

Geralt takes a deep breath, sighs it out through his nose. 

He braces himself when Jaskier continues speaking, but what he hears is: 

“I’ve never met a man so interesting and yet so reluctant to be at the same time in my goddamn life and I swear to you, I will figure you out.” 

And with that, Jaskier leaves. 

Geralt has absolutely no idea how to feel about any of it. 

Roach looks at him knowingly, presses her snout against his shoulder for a moment, and then turns to drink some water.

Geralt rolls his eyes and begins to climb the ladder. 

Up above he can see the commotion as the last wave of passengers arrive and the people begin to out divide the cots. He should be keeping an eye out for conflict, keeping track of who is willing to fight, who is impulsive, who is calculated. But Geralt finds himself watching as Jaskier makes his way through the crowd, slipping through all designated areas in brash ignorance of any social rules. Somehow he’s never met with a fist as he does so. Instead, wherever he goes, he draws out the species’ best approximation of a bemused smile. They seem unsure what to do with him at first, but one by one, he manages to lead them to an easy and harmless solution: to have fun. 

It doesn’t take very long before laughter cascades the hall. Rounds are had, songs are sung. 

Geralt sits above, iron pressing cold lines into his back, and watches. 

He thinks that once or twice, Jaskier looks up, and watches back. 

The merry sounds only let off when the ship gives a roaring rumble, and familiar alarms go off warning everyone aboard to take hold and sit tight. 

There are no belts in this place, but as everyone hunkers down, holding pipes and walls and each other, the ship lurches into motion. 

Geralt closes his eyes, trying to breath through the building pressure without throwing up. 

The ship tilts, dives lower, accelerates. Beds and people alike begin to list to the side. 

But with a sudden burst of force, the ship rightens and stabilises. The walls behind Geralt tremble still as different parts of the ship move and interlock with each other— going from the standard dock positions to long void travel. 

One of the platforms that had been folded up now shifts away, and opens up a small window on the opposite wall. Most everyone’s eyes are drawn to it one by one, as they slowly watch Zevos’ many purple moons becoming smaller and smaller, before the planet itself is swallowed mostly by the light of its sun. 

They have four days before that too, will disappear entirely. 

Geralt heaves a deep sigh. 

The journey has truly begun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sm for the vocal support. It really made my week and broke me through one hell of a writersblock. RL is being an unpredictable mess so I'm not gonna keep to a set schedule with this, just post and write as I'm inspired. Yalls questions in the comments really helped with that! Bc there is no set schedule, u can also follow along on my tumblr (somedrunkpirate just like here), where I'll give a headsup when another chapter is coming/post teasers of coming chapters, all that. 
> 
> <33 Hope yall enjoy the continuation of this as much as the start <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for those who're still reading! Apologies to the go folks, I promise I'm working on Angel as well, just slower, this fic is just yeeting all my writer's block away and I'm wary about stopping this train in case it comes back. 
> 
> There is an actual beginnings of plot in this one, also the beginnings of more tropes. Angst in space, hurt/comfort in space. We got it all folks. 
> 
> Minor warning for descriptions of sensory overload and sleep deprivation, don't think it's too extensive but Geralt has hypersenses and isn't having a good time on a garbage ship. Who woulda thunk. More specific explanation of the symptoms will be in the lower notes.

The first night is always sleepless. 

Be it the rambunctious nature of a group of people having made it out from whatever they’re running from— you do not use these kinds of ships if you’re not running from something— or getting used to the movement of the ship, the rumble of the engines and the thrum of ventilators. 

Geralt doesn’t even bother laying down. He sits on the far edge of his grate, one leg dangling over the edge and his back leaning against the wall. He hadn’t had much time to pack for the travel; he’d had to leave his larger case behind, but he isn’t bothered by the cold. 

As such, he takes off his jacket and sits on top of it, a measure more comfortable than the iron on its own. But after a while, he takes it, folds it, and puts it behind his head, one loose sleeve over his nose. That way he can at least pretend it’s filtering out some of the stench. 

By some miracle, the passengers down below start to quiet down in earnest three hours into the journey. Maybe the rush has left them all more exhausted than usual. It’s been barely three days since the Magistrate let Enforcers into Erilisis Boulevard. The riots are still going, as far as Geralt knows. 

The Sovereign Wastes have not been all that Sovereign lately, at least not the planets and cities that border with the UNC. A new fervour of anti-augmentation has come out of Novigrad, led by their most fearsome priests on the pulpit. Raving on and on about their beliefs, inexplicably convinced that anyone else should give a fuck about them as well. The everlasting fire will purify the masses, and so on and so forth.

Geralt’s fingers curl into his palm of his own accord. The cool lines of crystal and metal weave between patches of labour-hardened flesh. He breathes, makes a subtle sign in the air. _Igni._

It’s only a flash of flame, ignited by the mechanisms in his fingertips, the fuel stored in a divet between his wrists. At least, that’s the story. It’s mostly true. 

But if the priests already wish to tear out the technological, Geralt can’t even imagine the way their eyes would bug out of their heads when they discover that even without it, he’d be able to produce flame. Not as much, not as controlled. But still. 

For all Ancienthunters are called, hypocritical isn’t one of them. They’ve worked hard to keep it that way. 

Geralt produces another flash of light— for warmth, for something to do, when movement catches his attention. 

A figure, at the mouth of the space between the containers. 

He was distracted, and the figure has already stepped into the dark. 

Well, it's no matter. Roach will handle it. 

He sends her a quiet warning and feels her stand at attention, ready for anything. She’ll start with intimidation, but she’ll be prepared for anything if there is a threat, if someone dares to come to close to her—

She sees the target, recognizes him, and relaxes at once. 

Geralt has to pull himself out of it, tumbling into the sensation helplessly, muscles slacking and breath coming too easy. A warmth of delight. He pushes it all away and grabs his blade. He shifts, leans over the edge, trying to see below, when he hears—

“Good girl, Roach. Now, can I go up that ladder?” 

Roach huffs. 

“Thank you.” 

Geralt stills and closes his eyes for a moment. He sighs through his nose. 

Jaskier clambers up the ladder with anything but subtlety. His movements make the steel clank and groan under his weight. 

Geralt doesn’t need light to know that he’s grinning, the moment his head peeks over the edge. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t push me off just yet. I’m not here to bother you.” 

Geralt can’t help but huff at that. 

Jaskier throws something at him. It’s soft, heavy— a thick padded blanket. 

“Figured that is better than nothing,” he says, and begins to climb down again. 

Geralt stares at the fabric in his hands. Questions rise up in his mind but none of them find their way into his throat, and he’s left there, stunned, rendered mute, at the sheer inexplicable action of giving something— something of actual use — without demanding anything in return. 

Jaskier is half way down the stairway when he calls out. “Geralt?”

Geralt tenses— here it comes. 

“If you change your mind torturing yourself for no reason I can discern, I’ve a cot with your name on it— well, technically, one with my stuff on it, but I suppose it will survive lying on the floor. You can even drag it away from mine, if the illusion of privacy means so much to you.” 

Sideswiped by the lack of— expectation, pressure; Geralt blurts out his surprise before he can stop himself. 

“You’re not in a bunk?” 

“No? Why should I? I don’t need one. Not as much as Skosa, or you.” 

Since when has anything been about necessity, in places like this. 

Jaskier reaches the ground. Geralt can hear him stumbling in the dark. 

Roach sends him a vague thought impression— snout pressing against a back. Gently. Leading. 

Geralt sighs. 

Jaskier laughs softly the whole way, as Roach softly pushes him back to the light. 

He thanks her, and wishes both of them a good night. 

Roach sends him another thought— a young Amaureen, the newest one in the stall. Brash, confident, but uncertain. Out of place. It had to be taught how to belong. 

Geralt isn’t sure if she’s right. Jaskier is out of place, yes. If there is any honesty to his disposition, he shouldn’t be able to survive. He shouldn’t have made it to this point at all. But he does belong, in a strange way. Or rather, he seems to trick others in believing that this is a _place of belonging_. That everyone does. 

It’s a fantasy. A false belief that will shatter the moment the darkness comes. No group of strangers can be held together by one man, no matter how bright he pretends to shine. He’ll burn himself out trying. 

And yet, Geralt finds himself hoping that he doesn’t learn. That he doesn’t have to grow bitter, after this. He lies down on the blanket, watches Jaskier return to a group of eclectic species, circled in the gentle glow of an emergency light. 

Geralt doesn’t dream— doesn’t sleep at all, but he dozes, a little, wondering despite himself what it would have been like to follow him down. To enter that circle and be welcomed. 

Stupid, of course. 

It wouldn’t do to break Jaskier’s carefully constructed illusion of sociability so quickly. 

For all his mastery of the ways of people, he seems to be blissfully unaware that even the presence of Geralt in his circle would scatter it into pieces.

Ironic, really, that refusing him could be considered a kindness. 

Not that Geralt has any intention— any need, to join him regardless. 

There is no space for him there, but he also never expected there to be one. Never desired to have one. 

He had his place in Ka’er Mor. He has his place now, with Roach, anywhere he wishes to go. Anywhere he can be useful. 

He doesn’t need anything else. 

He doesn’t want the responsibility of keeping it, once he finds it— to deal with the irrevocable consequence of losing it, the unerring awareness that if there is a mistake to make, a misstep to take, he will find it and have no hope of preventing himself from doing it. He’s proven that much. 

He doesn’t want to deal with any of it. 

Geralt is free. He won’t be if he’s holding on to something. 

Or someone is holding on to him. 

And he’s become very good at making sure no one wishes to keep him. 

It is only a matter of time before Jaskier learns that too. 

Geralt doesn’t sleep, but he makes himself stop watching. 

He tries to think of nothing at all. 

The following two days are almost normal. 

Normal, in the sense that they’re excruciating. Geralt does not, in fact, get used to the smell. There is something about the specifics of this batch that clings onto every surface and every fabric. The air dews onto the walls, sparkling droplets of utter disgust, and seeps into his blanket, his jacket, his clothing, until they’d be better suited for the containers than on his body. 

Geralt spends the time curled up and shivering— fleeting memories of before the Trial of Glass encompass his mind, ones he’d forgotten entirely after the change. His mother, a vague image, pressing cooling packs against his forehead. Gentle words of encouragement. Music— lullabies at first, and then longer songs, some lasting hours and hours. Lyrics in shards and pieces, half remembered, half imagined. 

_And she stood on the way side, swaying in line_

_The stars of infinity before her_

_Sunlight shines brightly, a traitorous friend_

_Her home, her childhood, she doesn’t look back_

_Forced to flee her planet’s end._

Her voice, curling around the words. Her laugh— no, that isn’t right. She wouldn’t have laughed. She was worried, then. Back when he could still get sick— when he could still die from it. 

This is normal. Geralt knows the burden of his senses, shakes and sweats but knows he will live through it. It’s only a matter of time.

In the dark, no one can see him. 

Only Roach knows. 

Her pacing is like a rhythm. Her unrest is only tempered by Geralt’s acceptance. By the familiarity of it all. 

Geralt breathes, and listens to the music down below. He’s annoyed to find that it helps, a little— the kind of stimulation that has a measure of sense to it. A pattern he can follow. 

But singing is not all Jaskier does. 

On the evening of the third day, two nights without sleep, Geralt senses a change in Roach’s footsteps. A line, instead of a circle. 

Geralt groans and sits himself upright. By the time Jaskier crests the edge of the grate, he’s regained control of himself— no trembling, no shaking. His fists are clenched. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Ah, you’re still alive, I started to wonder.” 

He climbs on top of the grate, sitting down with his legs crossed. 

Geralt is too tired to argue— too hungry, too desperate, for anything to distract him. His senses have gone haywire, so sensitive that he can feel the creaking of fabric when he breathes— that he can feel Jaskier’s breath, hear his heartbeat. 

He almost closes his eyes to it. 

Every night, Jaskier has come here. Sometimes to bring water, or food. Sometimes for an attempt on conversation. Every time Geralt managed to get him to leave within ten minutes. But he already knows that this time will be different. 

“Corron, you know, the Decalon, makes a mean stew from those dehydration packs. No clue what he puts into it, but I traded him some in exchange for a few song requests, so if you’ve been wanting to carve out my eyes because of those ballads, hold off for a moment and tell me if it wasn’t worth it.” 

With that declaration, he pushes a bowl into Geralt’s hands, lid open. 

For a single moment everything melts away as Geralt’s focus is entirely enveloped by the scent of actual, edible, warm food. But Geralt would have to put his face in it for the smell to linger, and he hasn’t lost that modicum of dignity, yet. Instead, he begins to eat it, trying desperately to block out all his senses except taste. 

Jaskier, of course, doesn’t let him and continues speaking. 

“Oh and Skosa has been working on these things.” 

Even with Geralt’s darkvision, he can’t make out enough details to discern what objects Jaskier is digging out of his bag. 

“You shouldn’t be near her,” he says, low. A sentence that has somehow become well worn in only a few days. 

“Yes because she’s really going to turn around and shoot me while fixing these—“ 

Suddenly there is a flash of light. Geralt almost drops the bowl at the shock of it and closes his eyes. His head throbs. 

“Shit, sorry, should have warned you. There is a setting somewhere—“ 

The light flashes again, but then dims a little. When Geralt opens his eyes again, he sees Jaskier grinning at him, electropulse-torch in his hands. 

“Karoline found them in the Piles looking for more shot glasses. They were completely busted but Skosa knows her way around broken tech. That T-1 Blaster of hers was also… a project, lets say.” 

Geralt closes his eyes again but this time less from the light and more out of the sheer force of stupidity that the universe manages to confront him with. “The Sketh has a _recently repaired_ T-1 Blaster on her person.” 

“She’s tested it extensively, she says—“ Jaskier begins, sounding slightly defensive, but then he suddenly cuts off. “Oh fuck, _Geralt._ ” 

Geralt snaps his eyes open, hand to his blade, looking for the treat. “What?” 

“Why didn’t you say you were sick?” 

Jaskier is staring at him, mouth agape, and that is when Geralt realises that the torches have more dangers to them than being allegedly fixed by a trigger-happy mercenary. 

Geralt has lost the shroud of darkness. 

“ _Geralt.”_

“Get out.” 

“The hell I will. What the fuck—“ Jaskier is shaking his head, pulling himself forward, his eyes searching Geralt’s face. “What is wrong with you? Were you already sick when you got here?” 

“Witchers don’t get sick.” 

“We have already established that you’re a special case.” 

Jaskier reaches out a hand— it's going— going to his forehead. The intention of a gentle touch— checking temperature. Worried. 

Geralt responds as if it’s an attack. He can’t help it. He snatches Jaskier’s hand away and growls, “Don’t.” 

Jaskier’s breath catches and he drops the light. It tumbles over the edge of the grate and shatters on the floor. 

Roach gives an affronted noise. 

“Geralt.” 

For the first time, Jaskier sounds uncertain. Not scared— not yet, but on his way to be. His fingers go slack in Geralt’s grip. He’s— he’s holding Jaskier’s wrist too tightly. Geralt can sense the blood being unable to push through, a persistent throb against his palm. 

He lets go as if he’s been burned. 

Jaskier yanks his arm back, his other hand curling around where Geralt had held him. 

Geralt imagines the skin— red, bruising — and his jaw locks together. It takes a mountain of effort to pry them back open and say, “It will be better, once I get some sleep.” 

Jaskier doesn’t respond for a moment. He’s sat back, leaning a way a little, eyes still wide. 

It makes Geralt a little sick, in a different way this time. He should’ve— he should’ve never let Jaskier up here. He’d known this would happen. He’d known and— indulged himself anyway. 

“Is there anything I can—“ 

Still. _Still._

Geralt wants to grab him by the collar and shake him— wants to yell, “Why do you do this? Why, after I _hurt_ you, do you still insist on helping. Don’t you see this is why, this is why I _can’t_?” 

He’s so tired that he isn’t sure if he’s done it. The image is so vivid in his head. But when he blinks, the world reorientates around him, and Jaskier is talking, still worrying the skin of his wrist like no time has passed. 

“— the problem. Every time I’ve been here, you’ve been awake. I mean, have you even slept at all?” 

Geralt does not say anything. It’s an answer regardless. 

“Wait, really?” 

“I can handle it.” 

“Oh yeah, it really looks like you’re handling it. My wrist agrees with that assessment.” 

Geralt can’t suppress a flinch. He lets his head fall back against the wall, hard. It's so much easier to be miserable when there is no one to see it. He just wants to be alone. 

“I’ll leave you, now, because I can see you’re one wrong word away from pushing me off—“ 

Geralt imagines it— one movement, one snap decision and then Jaskier would fall, scatter, break. Just like the light. Bile gathers up his throat. 

“--so I’m going now. But if you haven’t slept by tomorrow night, you’re gonna fucking get in that bunk, you hear?” 

Geralt suddenly feels a strange kinship with the Sketh— Skosa. This is how she must have felt, overwhelmed with wild emotion, dangerously close to enacting some measure of pain, and then confronted by this strange creature that seems unable to prioritise his own safety above his stubborn fucking sense of what is right. 

“Fine,” Geralt grates out. He doesn’t mean it. He’d say anything to get Jaskier out of here— to be able to fall apart, finally, without a witness. 

But then Jaskier says, “Thank you,” with such naked relief and gratitude, that Geralt already knows he won’t be able to go back on it. He’s excruciatingly aware that it must be the mod— he feels the pull of it, the delicious warmth of genuine care that cannot be anything more than a nicely flavoured lie. Jaskier is kind; he is even kind in using his abilities to convince Geralt, but he can’t truly care like this. Not in this short amount of time. 

Geralt feels himself being persuaded and hates himself for it, but he’s going to let it happen anyway. 

Except if he is able to sleep. He doesn’t have to listen, if he sleeps. That’s the deal. 

By whatever fucking power in the universe, Geralt will convert to any if he just can fucking fall asleep. 

He lies back down and shakes and shakes and shakes. 

He doesn’t sleep at all. 

His vision begins to blur and shift. There are strange shapes in every corner. Figures, sometimes. Roach stops pacing and starts twitching erratically, trying to find the enemies that Geralt’s mind is carving out of a thick cloth made from pure exhaustion. He tries to show her, to calm her down. There is nothing there. It’s all false. 

Her breath comes more rapidly when one figure, a tall elongated humanoid rises up in the shadows, looming over Geralt. It’s fingers are long and thin. His torso is all bones-- too many of them, dozens of ribs, protruding out of paper thin skin. Geralt almost laughs at it. It’s a good impression of something terrifying. Vaguely familiar, even. Dragged out of nightmares, past memories, or even his teachings at Ka’er Mor.

But it remains funny to see a creature so imposing, completely without a head. It reminds Geralt of a butchery-- chickens walking on their last legs. A horrific comedy. 

The creature reaches out, and when its finger is about to touch Geralt’s forehead, it disappears. 

_See,_ Geralt tells Roach. _Not real._

Roach huffs, sceptical, but for the rest of the night the visions stay away. 

Sleep does too, but what's new. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there! I've finally integrated a canon plot point into this au and it is sleep deprivation.
> 
> Sensory overload: Geralt becomes very shaky, sickly and unable to sleep  
> Sleep deprivation: Geralt starts to get hallucinations and because of his exhaustion, he is sure they aren't real but one vision is described in more detail, a humanoid shadow monster type thing. Nothing happens to Geralt except for seeing it. 
> 
> Lemme know if more tags are needed and all that. Also let me know if there is any trope or whatever you would like in this, no guarantees it will happen as i have seemingly no control of this fic, but maybe your comment will spark something in me. The hurt/comfort is gonna be more comforting hopefully next chapter, eventually, after Geralt starts to be a little less stubborn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I almost forgot to post, but its technically still Sunday in the USA right so, we good. Here is some comfort with all the hurt!

There are no guards. 

The observation stops Geralt in his tracks momentarily— he gets a vague sense that this is important information. There should be a reason why there are no guards. Guards do not just suddenly up and disappear. That’s not their job description. Guarding can’t be just a sporadic activity, whenever you feel like it, because then things like this happen: someone stumbles upon a door, unguarded, and could just go ahead and walk in. 

But the idea is so deliciously simple that Geralt goes right ahead and does it, any thoughts of mysterious de-guarding completely melted from his mind. He’s lost in a sensation of relief that he doesn’t have to deal with fighting right now, when he’s barely sure what is real and what isn’t. 

He also knows, vaguely, that three nights without sleep shouldn’t make him this out of it, but it's easy to just blame it on the stench and not waste his precious time thinking about stuff. His bursts of clarity must be used efficiently, and now he’s going to use them to burst the door open to the restricted waste, level three. 

Medical waste, that is what he needs. There must be something in there he can mix together into some semblance of a sleeping concoction. He doesn’t have all his supplies anymore, but he has some, and he has his memories of chemistry lessons and picking herbs in the gardens. Whatever he makes might kill the average humanoid, but hopefully it will just knock him out. 

And there are no guards, so this should be easy. 

He slips through the hallway quietly— ignores the whispers and the mutterings and the footsteps coming out of the labyrinth behind him. _False,_ he thinks, even if Roach isn’t here to hear. The guards have a specific sound when they walk. Those Coalition-issued working boots. These steps— far in the distance, sound more like feet, or paws, naked on the floor. 

Guards do not take off their shoes. Not in their job description. 

Geralt stealths his way to the door. It probably has alarms on it, but he doesn’t really give a shit, so he makes a sign and _Ard_ does the rest. 

He isn’t sure if the alarms are off, or if he isn’t able to hear them in the waft of new smells that come towards him. In either case, he isn’t going to be able to last a long time, so he better get going and find what he needs. 

The third level is much smaller, about the height of a normal room, for once, and yellow lines direct to different sections. It is fairly easy to find the right general area, but when Geralt arrives and runs his eyes along the long rows of boxes, he realises that he is in no state of mind to read the labels. 

He’s stunned, for a second. Completely at a loss for what to do. Slowly, like something bubbling up from a thick, muddy swamp, he develops a vague idea of just grabbing a big thing, and filling it with other little things, and figuring what to do with them later. 

But before he can even get to that first step, there are more sounds— footsteps again. But these ones have shoes. Or at least, one set of them does. The others are hooves, and they come with a sense of frustration and determination. 

“Oh fuck,” Geralt says. 

It is almost night, and he’d promised— he’d promised Jaskier. He’d wanted to sleep, and he’s trying to find a way. A way that doesn’t ruin everything. 

Jaskier had been distracted for the day. That afternoon, the light in the window had finally disappeared. The week of the void had started. So, as promised, Jaskier had performed Craven Rose. It had lasted for the better part of the evening, and Geralt still hadn’t been able to sleep. 

“Geralt!” 

Geralt takes a reflexive step back at the sound. Bad choice. He’d been right about the ship going low on funding, because the slight push of his shoulder sends the whole rack into motion, rusted screws snapping at the joints, it lists to the side, and one, two, three objects fall off the shelves.

Geralt manages to dodge two. 

Jaskier has just skidded to a halt in front of him when the third— the largest, tips over and covers Geralt completely in some sort of chemical goo. 

It burns his hands, his shoulders, his neck. 

And then, finally, _blessedly_ , Geralt passes out. 

Geralt comes to swinging. Swinging, as in, the movement. He blinks his eyes open and realises he’s been thrown over Roach’s back. He groans. 

“Geralt?” 

Jaskier is beside him at once. Geralt has to crane his head strangely to look up and see his face. He’s met with an expression artfully combining worry and utter exasperation. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” 

Geralt tries to say something, but the pressure of Roach’s back into his chest makes it hard to take a full breath. He lets himself slip off, landing on his feet only just. He’s lucky the tunnels here are barely 5 feet wide, because there is a wall behind him to catch him. 

Jaskier makes an irritated noise and stalks around Roach, pointing a finger at him. “You are in no state to walk to the bathrooms, get back on Roach or I will—” 

Geralt frowns at him, tunes out the rest of the threat as he tries to make sense of what Jaskier is saying. The however many minutes he’d been unconscious linger like a spirit boost in his body— he’s more in control of his senses than he’s been in a while, but Jaskier’s rapid fire reprimanding makes him feel slow and lost again, missing something. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling around Jaskier. 

After a second, Geralt catches the source of his confusion and pulls at it. Finally able to speak, he asks, “Bathroom?”

Jaskier takes a very deliberate breath. “You’re a walking health hazard. You’re not gonna fight me on this.” 

Geralt looks at his arms, legs, and has to acquiesce to the point. Whatever chemical he’s been doused in, it wasn’t strong enough to completely eat through his clothes. There are large areas that have been bleached, strange grey and white blobs among the dark fabric, but where his skin was covered, it was protected. The problem is the parts of him that were not. 

His hands, for one. He’d held them up reflexively, trying to protect his face— mostly successful. Parts of his arms where he’d had his sleeves rolled up, and his neck where the goo slid down from where it landed on his shoulders. The back of his head is mostly left unblemished, his hair only a little burned at the ends. 

For all Geralt has no desire for a walk of shame through the crowds of people, his pride has little priority in comparison of getting this fucking shit off of him as soon as possible. 

Like hell he’s gonna be carried in there though. 

Deciding that arguing the point would be more effort than it is worth, Geralt just starts walking. 

“You goddamn bugfuck—” Jaskier seethes behind him. 

Geralt sets his jaw. One foot, other foot. His hand stings as he drags it across the rough metal of the tunnel walls. 

Jaskier keeps up easily with him. “You can’t honestly think you’re going to make it.”

“Survived worse,” Geralt grits out. It isn’t even a lie. This is nothing. Though he could do without the running commentary. 

“I give you 30 seconds before you pass out again,” Jaskier says. “If you really want to walk in there, at least let me help— or Roach, if that's better. You won’t have a wall to lean on once we reach the hall.” 

Geralt continues, forcing himself forward, but as the tunnel opens up, he has to concede to the argument. 

He doesn’t want Roach anywhere near the crowd, and she can’t climb up those walkways anyway. 

Once the hall is a handful of paces away, Geralt stills. He waits, leaning against the wall. 

It takes only a few moments for Jaskier to take the hint. Without a word, Jaskier takes his arm and puts it over his shoulder. Geralt allows his weight to shift from his hand, still lingering on the wall, to Jaskier’s form. Jaskier takes it, surprisingly easily, and begins to walk at a steady pace. 

It’s warm, comfortable. Quiet, for a little while. 

Geralt tells Roach to go back to the containers, and not to worry. 

She sends back a gentle impression of pressure, stability, warmth. She isn’t worried. 

Geralt divorces himself from the thought. Doesn’t think about why.

It’s easy to be distracted. The closer they reach the light, the more eyes turn towards them, staring. 

A different quiet envelops him. Not a kind one at all. 

Conversation halts and they watch as the Ancienthunter enters their company for the first time, weakened, dirty. Pathetic. 

Jaskier speaks up right when the weight of their eyes becomes almost unbearable. 

“And this is why we don’t mess with the labyrinths, kids. Anything can fall out of those fucking drums when you least expect it.” 

He says it lightly, but there is a tension beneath it that catches Geralt off-guard. Something he would’ve expected to be altered— covered, by the mod. Maybe it’s because he’s so close that he can hear the discrepancies. Or maybe Jaskier is distracted, isn’t using it as well as he normally is. 

Regardless, the others don’t seem to hear it. His remark was both an acknowledgement of their staring, and an answer to the questions that motivated it. Now, the mystery solved to an extent, most are shaken into a reflex of manners— or any semblance of them they’ve been taught. Slowly conversation picks back up again, though there is more murmuring than not. Geralt could bet what the topic is. 

“Corron, could you fly up and run the bath? We’re gonna need the big guns for this.” 

The tall black and white feathered Decalon nods, already having wandered up to them, and lifts off with two big flaps of his wings. In the limited space, it is more like a long leap than flying, as he easily crests the edge of the highest walkway and slips into a door. 

Geralt’s eyes trace from the apparent end goal down the four long angled sections of walkway that criss-cross diagonally against the wall. At this point, the journey seems like a special form of torture, but with an intense awareness of the eyes still watching behind him, Geralt gathers the last of his energy and sets forth, back straightened and face blank. 

The trek feels all too similar to those first few days in Zevos, trying to trace some beast or another in the pale deserts of Bacovas. The region is merciless not only in its heat but in the heaviness of its air. Not humid, just _heavy_ , every step taking that much more effort. Geralt hadn’t had the interest to find out whether it was biological, cheminal, gravity, or whatever else, but the result had been exhausting. 

It had felt good— earned. Life had been too easy for a while there. It had felt fitting to be in a place where it took too much effort to run. 

And now, he can’t run from this either— the stares, the quiet encouragement of Jaskier’s voice. The pull of his mod is back again, lulling him into an almost meditative state. He barely feels the burns anymore. The air is heavy, the lights are too bright, but somewhere, in his mind, he’s floating. Light. 

“You’re almost there, Geralt, come on. You’re going to feel much better with all this off you.” 

He’s— they’ve stopped walking. They’re in a room with showerheads mounted on the walls but in the corner, below two of them, lies a large tub. 

Jaskier is talking still, his voice like the water, an even stream of warmth. 

“Before you ask, yes, we found it in the Piles, and yes, we cleaned it thoroughly, and yes, you are not allowed to argue with me.” 

As if Geralt had the intention to. He feels unbound. The light— he’d been in darkness so long that even though the emergency LED sting his eyes, the illumination itself is like a balm. The dark had made more space for visions, for unreality. In here, there is only the light, the water, and Jaskier. 

In here, it almost seems possible to accept he’s being cared for. That this is allowed. 

So Geralt doesn’t protest, doesn’t speak as Jaskier helps him out of his clothing. There is no room for humiliation in the warm fog that fills the room in white clouds. As Geralt sinks into the tub, Jaskier is muttering under his breath, throwing the clothes underneath another shower stream, saying “— about 90% chance they cannot be saved, though if you were to wear them again you might restart a bleached leather look once more. It’s been a few decades since that was in vogue.” 

He pratters on and on, and Geralt lets it come over him. It is strangely soothing to know he isn’t alone. 

There, enveloped in warmth, light and companionship, Geralt finally, _finally,_ falls asleep. 

“What am I going to do with you?”

Geralt blinks, becomes aware of his surroundings one sense at the time. He hears the voice— Jaskier, the shuffling of feet on tiles. He feels water, lukewarm around his body, and then his hands and arms, the tell-tale tugging and twitching of his skin that comes with augmented healing. He smells, lavender and thyme, all around him but especially in his hair. 

And then he sees— Jaskier, half covered in fog, half uncovered of clothes, face in tense lines but dissolving at once when their eyes meet. 

“You’re awake, I see,” he says, smiling. “I’d started to wonder whether I would have to drag you out to save you from dissolving.” 

Geralt shifts in position and groans, his muscles aching from holding in a strange position for too long. “How long?” 

“You got a good four hours in. Don’t worry, I haven’t been staring at you for that whole time. When I was sure you wouldn’t drown yourself, I checked in every once in a while. Threw in some stuff.” Jaskier holds up a little glass jar and dips in his fingers, “You know, bath salts, oils. It wouldn’t do just to have to rot in your own chemical waste water for the whole duration. Would kind of defeat the purpose of all this.” 

As if to punctuate his sentence, he flicks his wrist and throws in a pinch of something shimmery. 

Geralt presses his lips together. “My hair?” 

Jaskier’s smile doesn’t let off, but his eyes flicker away for a second. “I— you.” He sighs. “You were out cold but kept your head above water. I didn’t know if the goo was on your head, so I rinsed it a little. Just some soap and water, all above board, I promise.” 

Geralt has to fight the urge to curl up into himself. How could he have let himself be so defenseless? He trusts his body to wake at any irregular sensation, and to think he slept through someone touching him. 

Jaskier must see something in his face, because his smile disappears and his hand goes to reach out, but then stops mid way, hesitant. “I’m sorry. I truly didn’t intend—” He takes a breath. “I wasn’t sure what else to do.” 

_You could have left me alone._

But Geralt knows that isn’t fair. He would have— he would have survived this, if it hadn’t been for Jaskier. But it would have been much more painful, and Geralt is so tired. Jaskier has had ample opportunity to hurt him before. He’s had the majority of the crowd under his control from the beginning. It would only take a few choice words to turn everyone against him. But he hasn’t done that. He’s only ever been kind. And while Geralt can’t let himself trust that— cannot be as naive to think that there isn’t something, some reason, why Jaskier is doing all this — he also can’t convince himself that Jaskier would have used his vulnerability in malicious ways. 

Everything he’s been doing so far is to prevent Geralt from being that— to help him recover. If there is anyone malicious to his well being, it is Geralt himself. 

And the speech mod could falsify care, warmth and earnesty. But it doesn’t affect the eyes, or— or a hand. 

A hand, trembling slightly, reached out towards him before landing on the edge of a tub. 

Jaskier is watching him still, searching. Waiting. 

“I never asked,” Geralt ends up saying, but it isn’t— defensive, this time. His voice comes soft, low, almost confused. “You never had to—” 

To care. To do this, to do any of this. 

Relief so often comes with a laugh, these days. Jaskier chuckles and shakes his head. “And yet, here we are.” 

Here they are, in a Garbagecraft rocketing through space. In a bathroom with rusty showerheads and orange emergency lighting. 

In a moment of respite. 

“Come,” Jaskier says, projecting calm. Geralt can hear what's underneath it. The hesitance, the worry, and the exhaustion too, of another kind. It’s a gift. “Let’s get you out of here and into a bunk.” 

Geralt huffs, but takes his hand, allows himself to be pulled by more than a voice. 

Allows himself to be led. 

Allows himself, for just another moment, to be cared for. 

He’s taken risks before. He’s done dangerous and reckless things and did not have one thought for the consequences. 

But somehow, following Jaskier seems to be the greatest. 

And for a moment, Geralt doesn’t have it in him to regret it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone needed a nap. Hope yall enjoyed that. Next chapter might take a bit longer than the others have so far bc we've been suffering through a heatwave lately and now there are a bunch of thunderstorms, and the humidity makes my brain leak out of my head. Hopefully I can get some stuff readable soon!


	5. Chapter 5

Of course, reality comes back with force the moment Geralt allows himself to dream— both literally and metaphorically speaking. 

There aren’t many bunks, this time around. Only four in total. Geralt doesn’t know who was kicked out to make space for him, doesn’t know how Jaskier managed to do that, but when he enters the room, he is confronted with who remained. He should’ve known. 

“No.” 

“Geralt.” 

Skosa’s ear twitches at the sound. 

“No,” Geralt says. 

He feels raw, still. Exhausted to the bone. To think that the Sketh would be near him, in reach of him— he’d let Jaskier touch him. He can’t trust himself to wake up. 

Jaskier tries to push him to another bunk, but Geralt stands tall. “Of all things, you’re gonna make an issue out of this?” 

Skosa turns around and looks at them both. “Good evening to you too.” 

Geralt stalks out of the room, Jaskier on his heels. 

“Geralt!” 

“I don’t trust her.” 

Jaskier rounds on him— he’s faster, still. Geralt wouldn’t be able to lose him if he wanted to. Geralt avoids his gaze and focuses on some point in the distance, arms crossed. 

“No shit,” Jaskier says. “But think about it, you fucking stubborn piece of shit—” 

The sudden anger in Jaskier’s tone catches him off guard. It forces him to look, unbidden, and Jaskier’s face is naked with frustration— desperation. 

“There haven’t been any incidents since the platform,” Jaskier continues, terse. “You don’t trust her, fine. You don’t trust me, _fine._ But you’re running out of excuses here, Geralt. She hasn’t done anything— has no reason to do anything. I get that you keep yourself safe by expecting the worst from people, but at some point that just makes you an asshole. You’re making this so much harder on yourself than it needs to be.” 

Jaskier pauses for a breath and drags a hand through his hair— it's still damp from the fog. It sticks to his forehead, forming little curls. 

“You don’t have to like anyone,” Jaskier says, softer this time. “I’m— I’m sorry I’ve been bothering you too much. I never meant to make you this on edge. I just wanted—” He cuts himself off sharply, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Skosa won’t do anything. It is not in her best interest either.” His voice turns grim. “She knows that if she does, she’ll regret it.” 

It occurs to Geralt suddenly that every ounce of power Jaskier holds— all that influence, a crowd turned to a mob within a second— could be used just as much _for_ him, as against him. He’d been so preoccupied with Jaskier’s incomprehensible actions towards him that he hadn’t seen the opportunity, the strategy, in allowing Jaskier to be— interested, or at least curious, about him. He hadn’t even thought about it, so convinced that regardless of Jaskier’s influence, he’d be the one that would break it. That he’d be protecting Jaskier from losing it, by not allowing him to draw him into the crowd. 

But, the opposite seems true. A bath was filled for him. A bunk was freed for him. All on Jaskier’s word. 

Somehow, without trying, Geralt found himself under the protection of the most powerful person in the passenger hall. 

Maybe he should make use of it, however long it lasts. 

“Fine,” Geralt says, and he almost convinces himself he’s doing this because it’s the smart thing— the strategic thing to do. As opposed getting to see the surprising beauty of Jaskier’s anger dissolving, his shoulders slumping, and another chuckle filling the space between them. 

When Geralt enters the room again, Skosa has turned back to the wall. She doesn’t respond to their presence at all, and Geralt is glad of it. 

Under Jaskier’s watchful eye, Geralt lays in his bunk. He barely fits in it, and it will be strange to get used to sleeping in the light, but when he breathes he realises that the smell is gone— the hint that would have been there is overwhelmed completely by the lavender in his hair. 

Jaskier couches down beside the bed, a hint of smugness to his face. “Better, huh?” 

“Hmm.” 

“Don’t sleep in too long, I’ll be performing tomorrow at noon.” 

Geralt groans softly, exaggerating his dismay. He gets a slap to his arm for his troubles. 

“Come on, they aren’t so bad. The acoustics are nothing to write home about, true, but I make do.” He tilts his head and asks, “Truly, what do you think of my performances?”

“They are suited to their stage.” 

“Suited to their—” Jaskier’s eyes widen in realisation. “Geralt, the stage is made of trash. You—” He shakes his head, laughs. “You still need a nap, then. Maybe you’re less of an asshole when you wake up.” 

“Don’t bet on it.” 

“I don’t know. I’m favourable to risk. Often comes with high rewards.” 

Jaskier seems closer, suddenly. His smile fills up most of Geralt’s line of sight. He doesn’t know if Jaskier actually moved, or if Geralt’s awareness of it made it seem like they’re leaning towards each other, being pulled—

“High losses too,” Geralt says, too softly. It feels almost— intimate. The game has shifted in tone. 

Jaskier matches it, like always, as if he’s got hypersense not for touch or smell or taste, but for the currents of conversation itself. All that lies unspoken, abstract and unremarked upon. Usually, anyway. Because his eyes go soft, and his hand reaches out again, steady this time, and touches Geralt’s shoulder for just a moment. And then he says:

“I think we’ve all lost enough, lately, hmm?” 

Any response gets stuck in Geralt’s throat— he is choking on the sympathy behind the words. 

The speech mod. It must be the speech mod. 

But it doesn’t matter. It pulls and pulls and Geralt is overwhelmed with memories— Lambert’s cursing _,_ Eskel’s silent disapproval, Vesemir’s yelling first to argue, and then out of anger. The twisted warmth of a home that made him into this, that tore him from a half-remembered childhood, but that became a new place of support and safety and— love, in a sense. To leave it was to be free— free from the confliction, free from the guilt, free from— from her. 

From her and every instance of failure she represents— every future mistake he could make.

She must have had her birthday by now. Geralt wonders if she was allowed to return to the Palace for it. If she’d been glad to leave, if she had. He wonders if he’d recognize her. She’d been so small, so fragile. He can’t even imagine her training in the keep. She’s still a baby in his mind. 

Geralt doesn’t know how long he’s been silent. He’d closed his eyes somewhere while remembering. When he opens them again, Jaskier is gone. 

Skosa is asleep across from him, barely two meters between them. The bunk beside her is empty still, so he hadn’t dozed off into the night. 

But the fourth bunk is being used now, and Geralt is faced with the pale white stare of the Dizan, glowing bright underneath the illusion. 

Geralt carefully closes his eyes again. His silver blade is one hand movement away. What Jaskier said about Skosa applies just as much for the Dizan, maybe doubly so. For all they know, they’re safe as their human persona— the age is clever, a good excuse to need a bunk. Bad lungs, maybe. 

For someone like that to attack an Ancienthunter would be comically suspicious. 

And there is a tiny part of Geralt, somewhere deep between all the apprehension and dark cynicism, that becomes irrevocably _glad_. Because he’d been thinking, in the back of his mind, that there was another reason why he didn't want to sleep here. Up on the grate, he hadn’t just been watching. He’d been on guard. Whenever the Dizan had made themselves present, Geralt had made sure to pay close attention to Jaskier. Had been ready to spring into action, silver blade in hand. 

So there is that part of him that is so entirely relieved that this is a duty he can continue. He can keep an eye on the Dizan up close, and finally figure out what their intentions are. (He can make sure that none of those intentions have to do with Jaskier, in any way, shape or form). 

Geralt falls asleep for the second time that day, one hand an inch from his blade and the other splayed loosely on his chest, where blooming warmth starts to build up— a secret satisfaction. 

Because now he can be useful, too. He can start to slowly repay the debt he’s been building. 

Jaskier might be protecting him, but what he doesn’t know is Geralt has been too. 

It feels good to be useful again. 

After a few hours more of shut eye, Geralt’s exhaustion is curbed enough to return to some semblance of baseline. Years of sleeping in any dank alleyway the universe could offer has not only given Geralt the ability to usually sleep anywhere — previous trash-based location excepted — but also resulted in him waking momentarily every hour or so. In some circumstances this periodic check on his surroundings is a matter of extreme importance. Even light sleepers can be taken by surprise. Noise suppressing fabric is all the rage these days. 

While Geralt is reasonably sure of his safety for the night, he is thankful for the habit. It gives him an opportunity to check on the Dizan. So when Geralt turns around, blinks in the light, and is confronted with empty beds, he knows the Dizan can’t have left more than an hour ago. 

Geralt drags himself out of bed and stretches, trying to shake off the last of his slumber— the clothes Jaskier had fanangled from somewhere tighten around his chest as he does so. His armor lies, folded, on the ground besides his bed and Geralt quickly changes into it. In the light the damage becomes more obvious: though the majority of his synthetic plating has survived, some of the natural fibers have been bleached and deteriorated. Though he can’t find any holes, the patterning is… unusual. The white spots now ringed with a goldish tint that shimmers in the light. It seems more like something Jaskier would wear. 

After one bemused look in the mirror Geralt shakes himself and focuses back on the task at hand. He has to regain a visual of the target and keep a score of their proceedings. 

Jaskier is unlikely to be alone at any point — the only times he’d been in an isolated position on this ship had been when he was with Geralt, on the grate. Geralt hopes that he’d kept that habit to one unarguably dangerous passenger, and so far he hasn’t seen any evidence otherwise. But even if Jaskier has safety in numbers, no one else is aware of the Dizan’s true identity. Therefore Geralt’s constant presence is still paramount, if only because he has some measure of what to expect. 

This isn’t the first time he’s encountered a Dizan. If they turn out to be a caster, that wouldn’t be Geralt’s first either— far from it. 

Officially, Geralt’s duty of the hunt extends further than merely killing beasts and creatures. As the prohibition of the Ancient Ways are only made more stringent with the decades, there is a significant expectation on hunters to not only defend people from malicious use, but to exterminate anyone who dares to use it at all within the Coalition. And, recently, within the Enforced territories as well. The Sovereign Wastes are becoming more like the Coalition by the second, and with it they begin to share the same nightmares and fears. 

But the Ancient ways are as varied as the people using them. They are dangerous, indeed so, but Geralt prefers to keep to his own principles on these kinds of things, as opposed to blindly following whatever bigotry those in the Ebony towers have smuggled into law. 

Not all who are deemed monsters are such, and it is more a hunter’s duty to make this distinction and act accordingly, than to slay everyone who is deemed abnormal by the masses. 

_“If that were the case, we should’ve started killing our own first,”_ Vesimir had always said. 

But there is something about a Dizan within the Enforced territories that has Geralt’s hairs raised on the back of his neck, nevermind on a ship bound to the Grand Station. Though the spaceship hub lies outside of the Coalition, the destination seems to imply a level of intent to travel within it.

This is not to say that it is easy, or even possible, for a Dizan to openly trapeze their way through Coalition borders. But that is where the Diplomatic Treaties are for: some, through means of status or academic connection, are able to attain protected access, and this Dizan quite clearly did not make the list. 

Even more so, even those who _can_ travel to the Coalition rather stay away from it at all costs. For this one to be here at all is strange. What business does someone have in a place where discovery would result in imprisonment, if not death? How can anything be this important? 

There are many practical reasons why it is only logical to see this Dizan as a potential threat. It would be stupid to ignore the signs. From the hidden identity to the travel destination, everything about them sets Geralt on edge.

Or maybe it's how, by the time Geralt makes his way down the walkway, he finds the Dizan sitting off to the side, eyes tracking Jaskier’s every move. 

Geralt’s hands itch for his sword. He very consciously does not reach for it and instead walks towards Jaskier, holding his head up like he has any right to. 

The way Jaskier smiles at him makes it almost not feel like a lie. 

“Geralt! You look much better, and you’re just on time to join in a game of The Last Ancient War!”

It takes a little effort to draw his eyes away from Jaskier’s face and take in the rest of the scene. A small group of people are sitting around a table that in a previous life was the hood of a hovercraft. One of them— Skosa, to be exact, is still fiddling with one of the legs, swearing under her breath as the table wobbles slightly with the movement. This does not affect the hologram projection of battleships, planets and ability cards. Geralt vaguely recognizes the game— it is one of those whose popularity only flared up more after it was banned by the UNC, stating ‘historical inaccuracy’ and ‘the perpetuation of Dizan propaganda’. In the rest of the Coalition more sanitized versions have made the round, ones that were a familiar sight in the Keep on lazy days, but in the underground there is only one version that is played: the original. It pulls no punches, bringing light to the brutality of not only the Dizans and their mage armies, but also the Coalition’s merciless assault. 

Geralt blinks at the glowing animations of warships shooting laser beams towards planets and moons alike and can’t help but think how estatic Lambert would be to get his hands on this. 

He manages to keep his voice level when he says, “I’m not one for games, Jaskier.”

Jaskier moves up closer to him, his smile changing a little: smaller but no less bright for it. Playful. “Maybe you should be, might do you some good for violence against your person to be theoretical as opposed to physical.” 

Geralt raises his eyebrows. “I expected a better argument.” 

Jaskier leans a bit more, voice going hushed, “I have one, you dick, but don’t want others to hear. People are starting to get antsy. We need a distraction. Don’t give the others an excuse to refuse.” 

With that, Jaskier pats him on the shoulder and says, in a normal volume this time, “And besides, you know you’ll draw a crowd.” 

“That is your talent,” Geralt retorts a little distractedly. He casts a glance around him surreptitiously, and immediately catches onto what Jaskier was saying: there is a difference between the crowd that stared at Geralt yesterday and the scattered groups of people who are slumped and draped over bunks and make-shift chairs. 

For one, there are groups again. Jaskier had them all as a collective audience, breaking between species and national barriers with practiced ease. Until now: the unspoken lines have made themselves known again overnight. 

Jaskier is saying something, but Geralt listens with half an ear. “You can brood and participate at the same time, I promise you do not need to speak more than 6 words a round, there really aren’t much more you need: Attack, Defend, Ally, Betray, Protect and Enact.” 

“I have played before,” Geralt says, looking back at the table now. With the current circumstance in the back of his mind, Jaskier’s choice of players makes immediate sense: Skosa, one of the primary aggressors. Corron, as a representative for both the Decalons and the Yur. Katrine for the humans and the few allied species of the UNC scattered in the crowd. A Pervuvian that Geralt doesn’t know the name of is representing his crew, who are the largest single species group in the halls and all the more dangerous for knowing each other. Jaskier, of course, to actually make the game work as a distraction. 

And Geralt. The unknown factor. The one who was dragged out of the dark, sick and weak. The one who is clearly under protection of Jaskier, without anyone knowing why— Geralt very much included. 

This is not just Jaskier trying to reforge the bounds between the groups on the ship. This is Jaskier doing the exact same as he did yesterday: he gave them answers. Why is the Ancienthunter hurt? Because the Labyrinths suck, that’s why. 

Now the question is more complicated, though. _Can we trust the hunter? Is he a danger to us?_

Though the answer will never answered completely, Geralt has to give Jaskier props that it is harder to see someone as an unrefuted monster when he’s playing a stupid fucking game. 

“Fine. I’m in.” 

“Perfect!” Jaskier claps his hands. “We will be playing a pre-coalition game, so all alliances are still open for the taking. Skellig, UNC and Nilfgard can still choose to work together of course, but that is boring and I will do my worst to prevent it. The first attack upon Diza has already occured because the lead-up is a boring circlejerk of bureaucracy. We’re playing to have fun making some holograms go boom but please be aware that parts of this game are based on very real tragedies, be it almost two centuries ago, so try to be a little respectful. If you’re going to involve too much real life bigotry, challenge yourself and try to play for the opposite team for once. Maybe you’ll learn something.” 

Geralt gets the sense that if anyone but Jaskier would’ve tried that lecture he would’ve been punched in the face, but Jaskier brings it with such confidence and a sharp smile that even the smug Persuvian nods at the end. 

Katrine laughs and says, “Suppose I’m not playing UNC then.”

“Depends,” Jaskier says, “making a parody of your own kind can be fun in its own right.” 

She nods thoughtfully. “I’ll try to do my best Northern Disdain of all things abnormal. Ironic really, it was us who brought in all the weirdness in the first place.” 

“Don’t question the logic too much,” the Persuvian speaks up in a low, lizard-smug voice. “If Humans are good at anything it's blaming others for their own mistakes.” 

There is a slight moment of tension where Katrine swallows, and the Pervuvian smiles in a way that does not hide his intent to offend. 

“This is entirely true,” Jaskier interjects smoothly. “Even before the magnetic shift, Earth had been in a bad way. As far as I’ve heard, my ancestors were boiling themselves to death and they were too busy blaming each other to fix it. It might be a genetic issue.” 

And what could have become a conflict is deftly turned to a strange — if companionable — - discussion. The barbs are sharp but mutual, more a verbal roughhousing than an actual fist fight. Geralt finds himself joining in occasionally, having much to offer on the general hypocrisy of the Coalition as a whole. His bitter remarks on Novigrad go over especially well. 

In the meantime, Jaskier actually manages to get a game started. With Katrine playing UNC, cackling as she claims her deadbeat father to at least be useful to give gems like “Without Humanity the whole of the Universe would dissolve into chaos” and “The Northern Colonies were and always have been the most advanced in all of history and any ally should be on their knees in gratitude for our support.” 

Corron, communicating mostly in Universal Coalition Sign Language, has chosen Skellig and focuses mainly on defense and keeps out of the rest of the drama, as is their wont. The Pervuvian has picked the Ancients and seems to be having fun screwing over everyone in equal measure, sending hordes of creatures into battle and fighting both sides, or ensuring that 1 in every 5 ships is at least slightly haunted. 

Geralt swallows a bitter laugh when Jaskier decides that “You’ll be Nilfgard, it fits with your aesthetic,” and tries not to think about the last time he saw Emhyr var Emreis’ face. It is a challenge as the Emperor icon manages to bear a striking resemblance to his great great son, despite the pixelated quality of the hologram. 

Skosa takes the seat of the various settlements that would later become known as the Sovereign wastes, and unlike their real-life cousins manages to not be taken over by either side and instead builds a veritable crime syndicate growing rich on war-time trade. 

Geralt realises belatedly which society is still left unchosen— which one Jaskier intends to play. 

But it’s too late to switch. So when Jaskier gleefully wins his first assault with a Dizan Mage squadron, Geralt’s stomach sinks to his feet. A quick look towards the Dizan confirms Geralt’s fears: underneath the illusion, the Dizan is smiling. 

It is uncanny how Jaskier manages to draw attention to himself in the worst possible ways. 

In the end, the game takes up the better part of the day. It is a long and intense war and the audience grows the larger the battles become, some conflicts being won only on a single ship difference. Geralt ends up being sucked in as much as anyone, and the narrative leaves the realm of history very quick. 

Jaskier does not pull his punches and manages to persuade both Geralt — which admittedly he did not fight against hard — and Skellig to his side. Without the coalition, the UNC is completely hopeless, and the game turns from a tense battle to a complete stomp the moment Corron and Jaskier shake claw and hand, and send their ships towards Novigrad. 

Katrine loses with dignity and even the Persuvian is smiling at the end. The Ancients have taken over most of the lower Tenements and he nods towards Geralt to say, “In this universe, you would’ve more work to do.” 

“Am I supposed to thank you for that?” 

Somehow, the remark ends up inspiring laughter in everyone. 

While the rest continue discussing the various consequences of their haphazard version of history, Geralt finds himself ruminating on a more unspoken outcome of a Dizan win. 

Magic. 

From all the Ancient Vays; healing, herbalism, divination, alchemy, elemental forces, charms and superstition; magic has become the word for all arcane forces that had the power to control, kill and destroy. Over time the word itself became a sign of malicious intent. Though understanding the truth in concept, it had been Yen who had finally taught him that there is no such thing as magic, in the way it was feared in the Coalition. That the glitter charms and spirit alchemy allowed in some regions of the Sovereign Wastes are magic as much as the lighting storms brought by the Dizan armies. That a flame to light a candle and a fire burning a village to ash are the same force, it is just the amount and intent that is changed. Like Beamtorch can be used to weld metal together, it can also be used to solder a hole into someone’s skull. 

_“It is not that they don’t know that,” she’d said. “I think, in the end, everyone knows that all tools can become weapons. And that if a tool was once used as a weapon, it does not mean the tool itself is the root of all destruction. But when no one trusts the crafter— the one who is using the tool, the distinction no longer matters. Everything I touch becomes a weapon, because they believe me to be one myself. Magic is not evil. It is an old power cultivated on Earth and feared across the galaxy, because it was easier to villanise it, than to ensure it was used for good.”_

Back then it had still been hard to hear the word said so plainly. It had gone against everything he’d been taught— even Ka’er Mor had to keep to that Coalition’s perspective of the Ancient Ways. 

_Magic— they killed by the thousands, endless walls of fire and flame, death and decay._

_Magic— the Dizians taught the forces of evil by Earthling witches escaping certain death, out for revenge to those who slayed their sisters._

_Magic— the cause of all madness, all greed, all wars for ages._

_It had to be stopped. It had to be forbidden._

But, somehow, no one seemed to question that the blast cannons of today can do equally, if not more, than what Yennefer can do on a good day. 

It is strange to look at the shimmering hologram letters, proclaiming a Dizan victory, knowing that there could have been a world where magic had never been banned. Geralt has no idea how to feel about it.

Jaskier, however, is seemingly having the time of his life. The discussion has transitioned again whilst Geralt has been ruminating, and the topic on the agenda seems to be further ideas of entertainment for the week of darkness. A vocal group starts advocating for another Craven Rose, but luckily even Jaskier sees the folly of that idea. He must have felt Geralt’s unbidding glare. 

“Repeat performances are below me,” Jaskier says, “It is a mark of an amateurish entertainer. I would never have anyone think I do not have the repertoire to fill a week, or maybe even a month. The issue is that many of my pieces are not… as you say… intended for a Garbagecraft performance.” 

As the conversation continues to other ideas, Geralt notices something out the corner of his eye. 

At first he thinks it’s movement— a shadow, blocking out one of the emergency lights at the end of the hall. But then he realises it’s the light itself, flickering rapidly before it suddenly flashes and goes out. 

It is far enough for no one else to notice, but they are quickly made aware when not one or two but three lights flicker out in quick succession. 

The Piles and the path towards the grate are now completely enveloped in darkness. Even some of the beds in the open square are just edging the line of light. 

Everyone grows quiet at the sight. There is an immediate shared feeling of apprehension. 

The week of darkness is bad enough with the lights on. 

Geralt truly hopes he will not have to experience the absolute madness that will occur if all lights go out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is kicking my butt but apparently Uni has decided to start a week later so hey? I might have more time to write. Whether I actually will is the second question, seeing as I just got a piano and am busy playing All The Things. If anyone has a cool piece I could try and break my fingers on let me know


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to write 500 words a day now. The first day was Annoying but I did it, the second day I wrote 1400 words and the third 2000, so now yall have another chapter. I'm hoping the trend will continue ;p

The tension brought by the failing lights is broken when Skosa slams her fist on the table and says, “Alright fuckers! 25 creds for one of these—” she brandishes a familiar electropulse-torch in the air, “10 for a recharge. Stock is limited so first come first serve. You’ll get a discount if you can offer up some materials so I can make more.”

There isn’t enough for everyone, but Jaskier manages to convince most people that having one per sleeping circle is enough for now. The Pervuvians insist on having one each and Skosa charges them triple on account of ‘being annoying’ but the actual crime, going against Jaskier’s word, is undeniably clear. 

When a few of the Pervuvians move to hiss at Jaskier, Geralt only has to straighten a little for the forked tongues to disappear back into their maws. But they only truly back off when Resk— the one who played Ancients with them, shakes his head and laughs, saying something in a dialect Geralt doesn’t understand but is either insulting or encouraging enough to make them head back to their bunks. 

If they hadn’t made a move towards Jaskier, Geralt wouldn’t have judged them for their disgruntlement. Pervus is a planet with three suns. A lightless existence must rest uneasy on their shoulders. But it will be a struggle for everyone in different ways. 

Without the aid of a night cycle light system — why install one if, officially speaking, no one is supposed to be here at night — keeping track of time becomes an issue. It is not just about missing your bedtime, or forgetting whether the food you’re eating counts as lunch or brunch: it's about the innate feeling that time is passing. An unexplainable abstract wave of sensation you only realise is there when it's abruptly missing. 

There are clocks, of course. Timekeeper temp mods displaying numbers on a person’s wrist or in the corner of their vision. You can set alarms, try to keep your rhythm. But it isn’t the same. You can shove as many watches in your face but at some point your body will simply not believe that time is passing without the presence of a sun. 

The best way to stay sane is to never let yourself wait. It’s in those moments of silence— inaction between two points, where the absence of progress will choke you. Where you desperately need that part within yourself confidently saying that things have in fact happened, even if nothing has happened to you. That this moment of nothing is not eternal. Anyone knows you can’t let yourself enter that space. 

And yet. 

Geralt finds himself waiting on Jaskier to finish his conversation with the others.

He isn’t even sure what comes after. He doesn’t even know what they would do. He hadn’t ever been waiting for Jaskier to come to the grate. He’d always been surprised when Roach roused him out of his sluggish, half-mad, non-sleep with a burst of excitement. Jaskier had just come, stayed, and gone again. The headache had been too bad to keep track of when it happened, to know the push and pull of his presence. He never had a chance to expect it. 

But now, after yesterday — after so many days in a row of having Jaskier for himself for even just a moment, Geralt finds himself waiting. 

The discussion seems to be endless. There is always another person clambering for Jaskier’s attention and they just _don’t stop talking._ It must have been an hour by now. No— two. Or three. Maybe there won’t be an end to this. Maybe this is what its like to expect someone to show up for you and then they don’t because they never fucking do _and—_

Images fill his mind abruptly: 

A sundown, a night— stars streaking down the sky as if they’re sped up. The sun rises again and there are moons, many of them. They twist and turn and wax and wane and then there is rain and snow before spring comes anew. Change, change, change. _Time._

Roach. 

Geralt allows the images to linger. The visions of Ka’er Mor he’s been blocking out ever since he left. 

It would be disrespectful to do that now. And Geralt is still just tired enough not to feel like lying to himself. 

So he stops waiting, finds comfort in the memories that aren’t his own but are still, in a way, his home, and stands up. It’s time to change Roach’s water anyway. 

He’s barely made it into the darkness when footsteps hurry after him. 

“Geralt!” 

Geralt allows himself a smile, hidden and small. It’s just like Jaskier to prove his little tantrum utterly useless. And it is kind of ironic how walking away seems to have become the one consistency to summon Jaskier by his side. 

“If you’re sneaking off to level 3 again I will in fact kill you.” 

And with that, Geralt’s smile disappears. 

“I wasn’t.” 

“Good.” 

Jaskier has caught up, and with him comes a flash of light. 

“Here,” he says as he passes a torch over. “This one is yours. I gathered your shit after you fell asleep last night. It’s still under my bed. Corron’s keeping an eye on it.” 

Geralt realises he hadn’t even thought of his satchel. With Roach near he doesn’t really have to. He doesn’t quite know how to feel that Roach rescinded her guarding duties when it comes to Jaskier, but he also can’t convince himself he’s surprised. 

“You could’ve left it with Roach,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier shrugs. “Didn’t know if you needed any of it. When you passed out in level 3 you were mumbling something about concoctions.” 

“Hmm.” 

“But all’s well ends well,” Jaskier says, giving Geralt an obvious once over. “You’re looking good— or, better, at least.” 

“I told you, I just needed to sleep.” 

“Ah yes, of course, I don't know why I ever worried. How frivolous of me, it's not like you intended to _poison_ yourself to sleep, even though we had a perfectly good bed for you ready. Nor did you fight that opportunity to the very bitter end.” 

“Are you done?” 

“Never,” Jaskier says, just to be contrary, because he drops the subject right after to say, “Thank you for joining the game, by the way. I felt we needed a spot of fun and, seeing the recent developments” — he flicks his light toward the celing for a second — “the need might have been more dire than I expected.” 

“A game is not going to stop people from going mad if we lose the light,” Geralt says, a little harsher than he intended. 

Jaskier sighs. “I know, but it’s postponed the potential disaster for a day or so, and at this point that’s the best we can hope for. We haven’t lost all of it—” 

“Yet.” 

“and maybe upstairs will notice in the meantime and send a maintenance worker down to fix it.” 

Geralt looks at him from the corner of his eye, takes in the slumped line of his shoulders and the way he’s worrying his lip with his teeth and decides that he doesn’t have to say ‘They won’t’ out loud. 

Jaskier shakes his head a little, and Geralt finds himself wanting to reach out and touch his shoulder. He’s saved from such idiotics when they round the corner and their flashlights catch the amber glow of Roach’s eyes. 

She huffs with delight and Jaskier beams as if all his troubles are forgotten. 

While Roach greets them each in turn, Jaskier says, offhandedly, “Oh, by the way, I gave her some food this morning.” 

Geralt freezes. “What?” 

“Oh— I wasn’t supposed to?” Jaskier turns with his hands on Roach’s snout, both of their eyes wide and beguiling.

“What _did you give her_ ,” Geralt says—lies. He doesn’t know how to explain that even on Ka’er Mor, it had taken some convincing for a few witchers in training to accept their place in the feeding rota. So for Jaskier to— 

Jaskier shrugs. “I gave her a choice from what I had on offer. Thought that if she was smart enough to get me to help you, she is smart enough to pick her own food. I think she liked the stew.” 

Roach gives a huff in confirmation. Jaskier smiles. 

Geralt realises that the game had been a distraction in more ways than one, because he hadn’t even thought about how the hell Jaskier knew where to find him. 

“Did she—” Geralt says, and swallows. “Did they see her?” 

It isn’t like— it isn’t like she’s a secret. They all saw her on the platform. But there is something highly uncomfortable about the idea of Roach being so exposed to a crowd without Geralt’s presence. 

“No, she—” Jaskier shrugs. “It was weird. I just knew I had to come to her. It was like a thought I didn’t know I was thinking.” 

He sounds so casual about it— distracted, like petting Roach’s smooth skin is more interesting than the words coming out of his mouth. He’s too preoccupied to notice that Geralt has stopped moving— stopped breathing. 

“I just knew there was something wrong,” Jaskier continues, “that I had to come to her, because you were in trouble.”

Roach sighs quietly. It’s filled with a flash of guilt and apology, but without a single ounce of regret. 

Geralt is so overwhelmed by fear that he barely has space for anger. 

A silent battle of thoughts and sensations occur in the space of a second. Rapid flashes of disagreement and deep emotions beyond the bounds of human capacity nor even Aumareen, a space built purely from their bond— their language. Their understanding of the other. 

_Not this. You never— you promised. Not— I am the only one, Roach. You can’t. You_ can’t. _If he wasn’t— if he wasn’t_ Jaskier, _if he’d known, he could’ve—_

They were always so careful at Ka’er Mor. Young Aumareens who had not learned to control their powers. Who had slipped into the minds of any and all who came across them, regardless of bond. 

It’s a cruel thing, how easily they can break. 

_He could have stolen you._

For however much people hate and fear Aumareens, it only takes one who wishes themselves to be in control of such power. If Jaskier had wanted it— even fleetingly, there would’ve been nothing Geralt could’ve done. 

Roach had chosen him. But if someone else chooses her when she’s vulnerable and exposed in the fabric of their minds, it wouldn’t be the same. Like a puppet on a string, she would’ve become their steed in body and soul. A steed does not need to think for itself. 

_Which is why you never, fucking ever, do this._

Geralt wants that to be final. He wants to turn away and pretend that physical distance will do anything to the connection between them. 

But Roach sends back a memory, and Geralt can’t force himself to shield. 

The stables, again. Vesemir angry, again. It speeds up, flashes forward. Vesemir slamming the door shut behind him and Geralt putting his hand against Roach’s neck, saying, “I’m not leaving you, no matter what.” 

“Geralt?”

It takes Jaskier’s tentative call to make Geralt realise he’s watching the memory on repeat, frozen. 

“Is there something wrong?” 

Geralt shakes his head and abruptly walks towards the water tray. 

Behind him he hears Jaskier telling Roach something about grumpy witchers and how impossible they are.

He can’t pretend to occupy himself with changing the water for too long and besides, being this close to the Piles is beginning to become overwhelming. Geralt vaguely wonders how the hell he’d been able to spend an hour here, never mind days. 

Roach turns away from Jaskier and nudges his shoulder. 

Geralt sets his jaw and ignores her for a moment, but when she lays her head against him he leans back against her for just a moment. 

_I’m still angry._

It is almost not a lie. 

As Geralt finishes up and starts to walk back towards the hall, Jaskier looks at him suspiciously but follows without a word. 

They return to Corron and Katrine, serving dinner to Jaskier’s haphazard collection of temporary friends. Geralt only notices they left a chair open for him when Jaskier pushes him towards it. 

He takes the food with a nod and observes them all quietly. Jaskier seems to somehow be aware that he’s not up for conversation, because unlike during the game he makes no attempts to draw him in. Instead Geralt is allowed to just… be. Watching, again, much like he had on that grate, but this time without any distance between them. Part of the circle instead of outside of it, and yet not forced into a shape that does not fit him. 

It is not that they ignore him. Some do glance at him every once in a while. But their gazes are edged with curiosity as opposed to anything else. Only Skosa’s eyes carry some form of animosity within them, but as the feeling is entirely mutual, Geralt is not put out by it. Not even Jaskier’s diplomatic persuasions should be able to dissuade the tension between individuals who have recognized each other as killers. It would be dangerous, for the both of them, to fall into a naive sense of comradery with people like themselves. 

Jaskier is allowed, because he’s not like them. He’s not like any of them. 

The evening rounds out with Jaskier and two Decalons performing a few songs together. The Decalons whistle-sing graceful arias in their native language, which Jaskier translates in the common tongue with lyrics of his own. As opposed to his more antique instrumentation that he used for Craven Rose, he’s pulled out his laser-synth for this performance. Neon lines in an array of purple and pink colours form a shape that Geralt always suspected to be inspired by the Harp, a delicate yet large Earthen instrument often used today in high brow theatres for myth-tales and false histories. The modern version is of course entirely incorporeal and thrice the size, meaning as opposed to merely using his fingers, Jaskier uses his body as a whole to play it, dancing in and out of the lines; weaving between them and twirling sound into song. 

Geralt is captivated. 

“He’s good,” someone says besides him, and Geralt turns to see Katrine with a thoughtful smile on her face. 

“Hmm.” 

“Too good,” she adds. 

Geralt just looks at her, wondering what the hell she expects to come from this conversation. 

She meets his gaze. “He doesn’t belong here.” 

That’s what Geralt had thought too, that first moment on the Platform. But— “He’s proven himself capable.” 

Katrine shakes her head. “I don’t deny that. I mean to say, why is he here? He could have charted any passengership, might have gotten free board in exchange for his talents. But instead…”

Instead he’s hosting an audience of wastrals, criminals and undesirables in the haul of a Garbagecraft. 

She continues, “You have to wonder—” 

Geralt cuts her off. “None of our business.” 

“It isn’t, until it is,” she says, her eyes hardening a little. “Tell me, what is the use in making friends?” 

Geralt sets his jaw and doesn’t answer. 

Katrine ignores the hint and continues as if she hadn’t expected one. “Trust. And what use is there in trust?” 

“You’d be stupid to trust him, to trust anyone,” Geralt says flatly. He’s starting to lose his patience. 

“True, yes, but you can’t pretend like we don’t. Some of us, at least.” She motions towards the crowd and then between them. “He makes it easy to. You want to trust him. And with trust come secrets.” 

Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t have to ask the last question. _What use are secrets?_

Blackmail, betrayal, theft, destruction of reputation. Or, on the other side: the foundation of a criminal case. 

_He is too good. He doesn’t belong here._ Geralt gets the sense Katrine is leaning towards the latter. 

“Why me?” Geralt asks.

“Two reasons,” she says, smiling. “Or, actually, one, but with two sides to it.” 

She pauses, either to bring more importance to her words or waiting for Geralt to put the pieces together himself. He didn’t fucking ask for a puzzle so he snaps, “What is it.”

She isn’t deterred by his glare, rather amusement glows slightly in her eyes as she says, “He likes you best.” 

Geralt’s gaze falls away from her of its own accord, his jaw clenching. 

“Which means either you’ll have the best chance to figure him out,” she continues, her words a strange echo from what Jaskier said to him that first day, “or, you’re the primary target.” 

It feels like strong hands tear into his chest and secure themselves around his lungs, while his stomach is taking a joyride towards the bottom of his feet. All previous interactions with Jaskier cycle through his mind's eye, now in an entirely new light— or, no. That is not true. A familiar light. A light he’d forgotten in the wake of quiet conversation, worried eyes and the smell lavender. 

_Bards were often spies._

And yet— as if he needed more proof of the omnipotence of Jaskier’s persuasion, Geralt cannot help but say, “He could just be kind.” 

The words, though honest, feel like they are said by a stranger. A phrase stolen by accident and somehow ended up tumbling out of Geralt’s mouth. 

Katrine just laughs and says, “Well, that means we’re all doomed.” 

Geralt gives her a questioning look. 

“If a man like that— a kind, talented, clever man, feels the need to hide with the likes of us…” She shakes her head, “then an Enforcer patrol is the least of our worries. Whoever he pissed off must be at the top, and we’re all going to be collateral. So, not just for my own sake, I’ll be hoping he’s just out to fuck you over. You and Skosa, maybe.” 

She slams back one of the drinks that Geralt hadn’t even realised she’d bought them and then leaves him with a war in his mind. 

There is a sickening sense to what she’s saying. It ties into everything Geralt had already been thinking before he’d gone ahead and lost his mind. If whoever sent Jaskier instructed him to bring him in alive, it is no wonder he’d been so worried, and so insistent on his care. Or maybe it's not even that; he just hasn’t had the opportunity to dig out the required information, and the moment he has it he wouldn’t care less about what toxic waste Geralt plans to consume. 

Even Jaskier’s unorthodox acceptance of Roach becomes logical. He’d been prepared to see her— debriefed by someone tracking Geralt’s movement on Zevos, or maybe Jaskier himself had been following his trail all along. 

Where Geralt expects anger and betrayal to come to the fore, he’s startled to find himself empty instead. Numb. Tired. 

He’d wanted—

He’d wanted it to be real. 

And maybe it’s that distance, that absence of a passionate response, that allows him to consider other options as well. Maybe Jaskier’s target is Skosa. Or, the Dizan, and he’s trying to figure out who it is. Maybe there is something Jaskier is running from and he’s trying to weedle himself the protection of the people within the ship— Geralt and Skosa particularly, the best fighters on board — when the moment comes. 

It would give him a reason to tolerate Geralt, to want him to be near and healthy. 

If that is the case; it had all been a ploy to keep himself alive, Geralt would be okay with it. It’d been unreasonable to expect more in the first place. He knew that from the start. He’s too numb to be frustrated at himself that he still did. 

But even though it is the preferable option, there is no guarantee it is reality. Jaskier isn’t not going to be a spy just because he wishes really hard. 

It will be important to keep the status quo— not let Jaskier suspect he is being suspected. Not let anyone know, for that matter; regardless of his motivations Jaskier is the central cog in keeping the crowd stable as possible through the void week. He’ll have to make sure Katrine isn’t spreading her concerns far and wide. He’ll have to keep track of the Pervuvians who would likely jump on the opportunity to cast Jaskier off his throne. And then there is of course the Dizan, and however the fuck they play into this mess. Has their interest been based on prior knowledge of Jaskier’s motives, whatever they turn out to be? Or is it something else, something separate, ready to complicate matters even more. 

A wave of exhaustion hits Geralt and he lets his head fall into his hands. 

He doesn’t want to deal with this shit. This is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to let himself— Why he never should have—

But Jaskier is good, too good, in many different ways, and Geralt has enough experience in making the same mistake twice. 

The first time he hadn’t been aware it was happening. This time he is, at least. The best he can do is keep his eyes open, try to figure out what Jaskier’s angle is, and hope that when — if — the time comes, he can trust his rage to return to him and protect him from what’s to come. 

If it doesn’t— if he has been so thoroughly disarmed already, Geralt supposes he’ll just have to accept that he’s been outclassed. Again. 

Speech-mods will be the fucking death of him. 

Geralt groans into his hands and stays like that for a long time until a warm touch brushes his shoulder. 

“Was my singing that boring, Geralt?” 

Geralt looks up to see Jaskier’s face— flushed and bright, droplets of sweat trickling down his forehead. His eyes are radiant and Geralt swallows hard. 

“Hey, you’re okay?” Concern seeps into his voice now and Geralt feels it like a weight enveloping him. 

He feels sick and comforted at the same time and he wishes he could be fucking angry because nothing is worse than this twisted sense of longing. Of wanting to lean in and put his hand against Jaskier’s face. To tilt his chin up, expectant, and wait to see what Jaskier would do— how far he would go to keep his cover. 

The wave of desire that comes with the thought is of no surprise to Geralt— not like it would have been mere hours ago. It is always the impossibility of something that allows him to realise what he wants. It’s safer that way. 

What is more surprising is that a part of him had thought it possible, before Katrine broke his bubble. 

But Geralt knows better than to indulge. He nods instead, a belated answer to Jaskier’s question, and then shakes his head a little— allowing himself to be more honest this once. He’ll need to convince Jaskier that he’s under his spell. That he has no suspicions at all. 

Or, a hopeful thought whispers persistently in the back of his mind, if Jaskier is being hunted, he needs to know that Geralt can be trusted to tell. That he’ll protect him, no matter the manipulation that came before. 

So Geralt says, “Just, tired again,” and it almost doesn’t hurt to admit.

Jaskier’s smile becomes smaller, more intimate, with a hint of satisfaction he isn’t able to hide. Geralt doesn’t waste his time trying to decipher whether it is the smugness of an operative having achieved a goal of trust, or the joy of a tentative friendship developing. 

“I won’t have to carry you again, right?” Jaskier says, “I can barely stand on my own two feet right now.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “Do I have to return the favour?” 

Jaskier laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll make it to the showers on my own, thanks, but I’m ravenous so I’ll check in with Corron first. I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

Geralt huffs. “I’ve tried to avoid you before, didn’t end well.”

“Oh look, he’s learning. I’m ever so proud. Now shoo. You look terrible.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

“It is as ever my pleasure.”

Geralt dreams that night. He won’t remember all of it the next morning, but details will slip through.

Soft hands, gentle care, bright smile. 

A warm voice telling him, whispered, like a secret. _“I wish it was real too.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst! Plot! Questions! My dear beta Scribeofarda yelling at me because somehow they forgot I was in fact me and of course there would be angst. But there will be a happy ending, it might just take a bit ;p 
> 
> Any questions you have about the worldbuilding are welcome! I might not be able to answer them fully yet because of Spoilers, but yalls insights are always super helpful to prompt me and working out stuff further. I'm flying by the seat of my pants writing this one (I didn't know about the Aumareen fragile bond stuff after I wrote it, for example) and it's so much fun. So yall throwing questions at me will either make my idea for something more in depth, or I make up the answer and have new worldbuilding, yay!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am! Alive! Ignore all missives and otherworldly signals predicting the contrary. The monster called Academia is keeping me quite busy, I am in fact in the middle of a battle right now, but somehow managed to write a chapter in between my turns. Hope you like it! Hope it doesn't take me another damn month to return!

There are no games the following morning. 

Geralt rises with a twisted sense of comfort; he slept well and the reprieve of the stench has lifted a deep tension from his mind and body, yet it doesn’t take more than a minute for a different tension to take its place. He is lucky that the Dizan had chosen this morning to lie in, because once Geralt awakens, he finds himself reluctant to get out of his bunk. 

There is a strange luxury to that. There is nothing immediate forcing him to drag himself out of his thoughts and face the day and whatever it might bring. No cold or heat that makes lingering in place too long unbearable; no Enforcers eager to find loiterers and squatters to poke with their taser-sticks. But the side effect of this lack of external pressure means there is nothing to override Geralt’s senseless hesitation. 

It isn’t as if the problems of yesterday will make themselves any less pronounced after a few more hours of staring at the ceiling. His circling thoughts are not helping him get much more clarity either. 

Jaskier either is, or isn’t a spy. And whether that has any relevance to Geralt depends on what the fuck Jaskier wants. He must want something. Geralt has accepted that. He just has to make sure he won’t forget it. 

But that doesn’t mean he is exactly eager to find out the answer. 

Hence, the bed-laying. 

Geralt sighs. He almost misses the presence of a constant threat. Something that is easily catorgorizable as dangerous, a situation wherein there is no time to second guess. He just has to take action, and if he fucks up, he won’t even be around to experience the fall out. 

Jaskier is a problem with complexity and nuance. The kind entrenched with motivations of not only himself, but whatever forces he might or might not be working for. 

Geralt wishes he could say that this isn’t in a Witcher’s perview, but sadly even when monsters are an issue, humanoids and their societies always find ways to tangle the web; weaving intricate strings of diplomatic drama and personal desires on which Witchers often trip over in their effort to get rid of, say, the fucking hag who is literally eating children. And of course, it is them who will be blamed for the inevitable social conflict that comes after. 

So, in a sense, Geralt should be used to this by now. Even good at it, just through being constantly forced to deal with it. 

He isn’t. He never was. That’s why he fucking left. 

A sudden shout shakes Geralt out of his thoughts. He whips his head towards the Dizan so fast that his neck cracks, but the Dizan is still laying there, moving a little in response to the noise but otherwise fast asleep. 

Another voice joins in and Geralt’s senses can pick up three more people speaking in slightly less bombastic fashion. Their contribution does not seem to help matters and the first voice becomes louder, infused with swearing and then, a physical threat. 

Geralt jumps out of bed and grabs his weapons. _Finally._

He rushes down the walk way, his eyes quickly scanning the situation below. He’s so focused that he barely notices the stench and the cataphonic noise of too many people talking simultaneously in the same room. His senses had been a curse ever since he stepped on this god damn ship, but now, given a mark, they’re in tandem with his needs. 

There seems to be an altercation between a Pervuvian and a Grog. They’re standing just at the edge of the light, their shouts transforming into hisses and growls. 

And Jaskier, _of course_ , is standing in between them, arms spread. A fragile barrier. 

Geralt swears under his breath and jumps over the walkway barrier. He lands in a roll and pushes past the beds and the scattered audience, creating a breach where he goes. 

He prioritizes speed above subtlety, so it doesn’t take long for both the troublemakers, and Jasiker — though, arguably, he can be counted as trouble in his own right — to notice whose arrival is imminent. 

Good. 

Geralt makes his eyes flare with blue light. His overlay quickly identifies the weaknesses in each of the individuals before him. For the Grog it's the soft flesh that cushions each side of his protruding spine. Though covered with bone-plate, it would be quite easy to slice through with his energy blade. The Pervuvian has a preexisting injury in his right leg, and one of his claws is missing from his left hand. He’s leaning a little to the left, as if his leg cannot take his entire weight. Jaskier—

Geralt blinks in reflex. The overlay closes. He doesn’t turn it on again. 

“Geralt! Thank fuck, someone with sense. Can you explain to these good gentlemen that coming to fists over a minor disagreement is not the best idea?” 

Geralt tilts his head like he’s giving the question thought. He meets the eyes of the Grog for a moment, then the Pervuvian, before returning to Jaskier and says, “Hmm.” 

He rolls his shoulders and moves his hand towards his blade, in case the point didn’t come across. 

Jaskier makes a strangled noise and his face twists into frustration. “No— not you too—” 

But before his complaint gets much further, the Grog huffs and stomps away. The Pervuvian leaves to the opposite direction only a moment later, a hiss following in his wake. 

Geralt takes a moment to appreciate Jaskier’s stunned expression. 

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have expected something else,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “You can put the safety back on now, Skosa.” 

“Sure, Chief.” 

Her voice comes from behind Geralt, in its full sardonic glory. Geralt turns to see her standing just off to the side, her Blaster still pointed where the Grog would have been. She presses a button with great flourish and the Blaster’s glow dims to a pale green. 

“All safe now,” she says, and grins, her eyes meeting Geralt’s. “You’re welcome.” 

Geralt sets his jaw. His eyes narrow into a glare. Something lights aflame inside of him and he wants to—

“Thank you, as well.” 

Jaskier’s hand lands on his arm. 

“Though I would’ve preferred a more diplomatic option, I can’t say I was not especially eager to drag it out much longer.”

His hand is still— it’s moving, trailing down to the edge of Geralt’s sleeve and—

“How are the burns?” 

“It's fine.” 

Geralt yanks his hand back. 

Jaskier’s eyes go a little wide and it's all too easy to remember that night in the dark, grasping Jaskier’s thin wrist out of fear and anger and—

Geralt takes a breath and spreads his hands, allowing Jaskier to see them, “They’re fine, the last of it healed during the night.” 

“Wow.” Jaskier looks on with rapt attention, a hint of awe in his voice. He doesn’t reach out to touch again though. “You know that that is a little insane, right? I mean, I’ve heard about Ancienthunter’s self-reconstruction modification, but chemical burns? Who fucking knows what was in that stuff anyway.” 

Geralt shrugs. “It only becomes a problem when you lose a limb.” He pauses and then adds, “Or, blood loss. Reconstruction doesn’t help much if you’ve bled out by the time it can create more.” 

“Fuck,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’m more impressed than horrified, or the other way around.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Dandel?” 

A human whose name Geralt doesn’t know steps into Jaskier’s space and murmurs something under his breath. 

Not that any conversation in proximity to a Witcher can ever be construed as private. 

“The Yur are having issues with the reassignments, they’re saying they need more spots in the light. I’ve been trying to let them know they’re not the only ones but—”

Jaskier sighs and says, “Fine. I’ll handle it. Let them know I’m coming.” 

The human nods and scurries away. He’s avoided looking at Geralt the whole time he was here. 

“Sorry, got to—” Jaskier interrupts himself with a yawn, “—go. There is something I gotta handle, _again_.” 

There is an edge to his voice that surprises Geralt— a note of annoyance that previously has only seemed to occur when Jaskier interacts with him, not when talking to, or about, anyone else. It’s the kind of thing he could’ve covered with his speech mod. The fact that he didn’t— 

Geralt decides not to read anything into it. 

Besides, now that he thinks of it, Jaskier is looking rather tired. His face is pinched like he’s got a headache and the lights are too sharp in his eyes. His shoulders seem a little slumped as well. And then there is the yawning. 

The impulse to ask whether he’s okay — whether he’s slept well — is sudden and alien and the surprise of it stops the words in his throat. When was the last time he’d been around anyone where he’d wanted to know the answer? And how much longer since he felt he had the fucking right to ask? 

And what does it matter anyway, when everything Jaskier has said could’ve been a lie? Why does he want to know this, if he doesn’t fucking know who Jaskier is in the first place?

Geralt doesn’t manage to extricate the words from his internal conflict by the time Jaskier continues speaking. 

“Don’t know how long it will take, but I’ll make my rounds back to you at some point.”

Despite everything, Geralt cannot escape the burst of warmth at the experience of being acknowledged. Like there is a list that deserves Jaskier’s attention and he’s on it. Somehow, for some reason. 

Maybe it would be enough just to enjoy it. To see it as a way to pass the time for the coming days and break up the darkness. Geralt can deal with the fall out later. He’s better at improvisation anyway. 

(Like he can fucking fool himself. Like it wouldn’t only hurt more to have this and then to lose it, even if he knows what is coming this time.) 

The only thing he can do is keep his eyes open, watch out for the blade when it comes and twist out of reach. He might be hit in the process, but he doesn’t have to let them bleed him out. He’s survived before. 

Jaskier only has 8 days left to get to whatever goal he came here for. His time is limited. If it is information he wants, he’ll start digging as soon as possible. He’s established a measure of trust now. Geralt is in his debt and Jaskier is going to cash in. 

So Geralt says, “I’ll be here,” and doesn’t admonish himself too much, for enjoying the smile that comes in response. 

Only 8 days. After that, he’ll figure it out. It will be fine. 

He hopes it's something he can allow to happen. There is a certain logic to being used— it's the way of the world, no matter which side of the Tenements you’re on. And maybe being useful to Jaskier isn’t all that unattractive of a prospect to Geralt anymore.

But there are some lines that cannot be crossed. Things that must be prevented, no matter who enacts them. And Geralt will.

But to have to put his blade to him— 

Geralt shakes his head. The image burns like the acid had. 

He casts the thought away. It won’t help to think about eventualities. Things will come as they come. 

In the meantime, he’s got a Dizan to deal with.

A Dizan who's apparently absconded their lazy-lie in and is rather wide awake, talking with the Pervuvians. 

Well, that isn’t foreboding at all. 

————

No amount of hyper sense is going to overcome the barrier of language. 

Geralt spends ten fruitless minutes listening to the circle of snarls and hisses as the Pervuvians stand together in a particularly scaley congregation of frustration. There is a moment where Geralt’s heart plunges down as the Dizan hisses back in reply— one speech mod is more than enough, really — but the words have a clear accent to them, so he can breathe a little more easily as the conversation continues. 

Not that Geralt can make any sense of it. He catches some words: dark, anger, injustice, sleep, and a whole lot of curses. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought the Pervuvians were merely complaining about a bad night’s rest. But there has to be more to it, if the Dizan is interested in the matter. 

After the Pervuvians have said their piece, the Dizan slips away from the crowd once more, reclaiming the small alcove besides the walkway that had been their usual spot for the last couple of days. They open their holoscreen, but the transitory energy of void travel makes most of the device useless without close access to a protected router. No such luxuries in the lower levels, of course. And yet, the Dizan seems to be able to open up a few applications, judging from the slightly differing hues of the light reflecting strangely against the wall behind them.

No one else seems to notice the incongruity of the Dizan’s behavior, and the moment only lasts for a few minutes until the screen is quickly put away. 

Geralt lets his gaze drift to the side, flickering from one person to another, like he’s scanning the room for threats but isn’t particularly concerned about a single one. When he deems it safe to look back towards the Dizan, they’re slouched against the wall, eyes half open, a bored old man in every respect. 

Except, of course, that their position makes them perfectly capable of keeping an eye on everyone in the vicinity. And yet, with all those choices, their stare returns to a single one. 

Jaskier has moved on from the Yur, and is now speaking to Corron and a few other Decalons. They’re pushing the army bunks around and Jaskier is standing with his hands on his hips, giving directions. It doesn’t seem to be an expedient process. 

Geralt makes his way to the bar, where he’d be able to keep an eye on both Jaskier and the Dizan in the span of a head turn and has the strategic advantage of breakfast. The negative aspect is that Katrine is the one serving it. But besides a significant look or two, she leaves him to eat in peace, and at some point Geralt gets roped into a few rounds of Gwent against Coron, who seems to have abandoned the rearranging efforts of his brethren in favour of quietly beating everyone he plays against. 

Geralt buys him a drink in response to his fourth victory, receives another significant look free of charge while doing so, and begs off from playing another round. 

Corron signs _Good Game_ without a hint of irony and takes the drink back to his bunk. 

His abandoned seat is quickly taken by one Jaskier, whose abrupt landing shakes the whole bar. His cheeks are a little flushed and his breath is coming a bit fast when he says, “Drink, please. Many. Whatever you have. Cold.”

Geralt pushes his half-full glass of water towards him. “Heavy beds, hmm?” 

Jaskier slams the drink back and sighs gratefully, but it takes only a second for his eyes to narrow as he registers Geralt’s remark. 

“You could’ve helped.”

“Hunting monsters.”

“What?”

“That’s my job. Not home decoration.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Ah yes, and it is mine, resident musician and purveyor of exhilarating nights.”

Geralt snorts and waits for a moment while Kathine passes with the drink Jaskier had so vehemently ordered. This time there is no look of any kind, significant or otherwise. She isn’t stupid then, at least. 

When she’s out of earshot, Geralt says, low, “You hadn’t asked.” 

He’d been kind of waiting for it, as he was watching. For Jaskier to turn around and say, ‘quit staring and give me a hand.’ But it hadn’t come.

Jaskier looks at him for a moment, and something in his face softens. “No, I suppose I hadn’t.” And then it's gone, erased by a self-deprecating laugh. “You forget you can, sometimes.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Anyway, it’s no matter. Erase the thought. I want to hear no more of beds, or the positions of beds, or light or dark or anything for at least an hour. Now. Tell me a story.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. 

“Of monster hunting, you know. Your job.” 

“I’m guessing your imagination will create something much more interesting than my reality,” Geralt says. “It’s a lot of waiting. A lot of dirt.” 

“I’m not looking for fantasies, Geralt, I want the authentic truth. If it's boring I can add more frills after the fact.” 

Authenticity while using a speech mod. Geralt is careful not to let that bitter thought show on his face. He shrugs.

Jaskier knocks his shoulder against Geralt’s and says, “Come on, don’t make me prefer you sleep deprived. You told stories then.”

A shiver passes down Geralt’s spine— his memories are still blurry of that time. He remembers the excuciation of his body, but also Jaskier’s voice, a sense of comfort. Who the hell knows what secrets he could’ve—

“Though honestly, I did get a bit sick of the necrophages and all the executions that you were talking about. Can you tell me something less recent? The Zevos job seemed to be the only thing on your mind, but now that you’re a little more—” Jaskier makes a wiggly hand motion around his head “— there, I was hoping for something new— or old, I suppose. What was your first Ancient?” 

Geralt quickly goes through the memories in his mind, trying to find out if there is anything of value in it— something that could inspire more than just Jaskier’s personal curiosity in all things adventurous. He finds nothing, and then reminds himself that this is exactly what he doesn’t want to be doing. Questioning every interaction, every word, will do nothing but make him paranoid. Things will come as they come; for now, Jaskier is a— friend, asking about his past interest. Because he wants to know more about him. 

In the face of Jaskier’s smile, it is scarily easy to buy into the illusion. 

When Geralt begins to speak, the excitement is almost palpable in the air between them. It is strange to talk about a memory so old and far in this way; Jaskier makes it new again. Not how nightmares do so, weaving new horrors from the threads of your past, but by paying attention, making it feel worthy of being listened to. Respected. As if the bumbling attempts of a young ancient hunter are of note to anyone. Theirs is a trade that is silenced; witnesses, if any, will only dare to whisper about what they saw, and any accounts that are not historic are struck from the books. 

The belief that talking about the Ancients draws them to you permeates many cultures and societies, even those who claim to reject the idea. Even the self-reported fearless and invincible; from the Enforcers to the unreputable badasses of the underworld, don’t tend to risk crossing the lines of the supernatural. 

While he speaks, encouraged by Jaskier’s endless questions, Geralt finds that it becomes easier with every word. His memories come like a stream, uninterrupted, and they fall off his tongue in short but vivid sentences. He realises that he’s been waiting to say these things for a long time; not just the gruff discussions with Vesemir or Eskel about the struggles of their daily lives. But to the people, the public, as so many of the problems that they’re sent to clean up, are created by none other than the people who fear them most. 

“It is not talk that draws them in,” he tells Jaskier, “ghosts and ghouls, discrum and griffins, they couldn’t care less on who is silent and who is not.” He pauses to take a sip of his drink. “But ignorance, stupidity. That is the true bait. People create their own horrors.” 

Jaskier shakes his head. “The idea that so much of it is just… plain preventable. How do you even deal with that? You’re like, a virtual clean up crew, at this point.” 

Geralt snorts. _I didn’t. I left._ He shrugs and says, “It’s the job.” 

“Shit.” Jaskier sighs, and then chuckles. “I expected blood and gore, not an existential crisis.” 

“Hmm. Got those too.” 

Jaskier grins. “Do tell.” 

Geralt considers for a moment and then opens his mouth to—

“Bard.” 

The Grog of this morning suddenly looms into vision. 

Geralt straightens at once. 

Jaskier holds up a placating hand. “Hold up, hold up. What is it, Tyvek? I’m not in for another one of your stunts—”

“It’s Skosa. She wants to talk.” 

“What?” 

“She’s got a plan, she says.” 

“Oh fuck.” 

Jaskier jumps into a standing, almost stumbling as he does so. Geralt follows suit in a more controlled manner, only for Jaskier to shake his head. 

“I’ll handle this.”

Geralt huffs. 

“I’m serious, Geralt,” Jaskier says, and then pauses for a second. “If— If it had been someone else, you could’ve come with. But—”

Geralt sits back down. Skosa isn’t going to respond favorably to his presence.

“Thank you. And I’ll remember, this time.” 

He leaves with a hurried smile. 

Geralt watches him go and notes that the slump in Jaskier’s shoulders has returned with a vengeance. He wonders how long they can keep asking until Jaskier falls apart. 

It would maybe thwart any spy-related plans he has up his sleeve, but that would only beg the question why he’s letting himself be distracted in the first place. Or is there something in this alliance with all people on the ship he needs to achieve his goals? 

The problem with illusions is that once they leave your field of vision, reality seems especially cold and muted. Geralt motions for another drink, trying to push his thoughts away. It’s much harder to do so without Jaskier to distract him. Which is ironic on a whole other level; he’s made himself dependent on the presence of the very person who is causing all these thoughts to begin with. 

Geralt heaves a sigh. 8 days. 

His drink arrives in short order, but when he reaches for it, it’s snatched away. He looks up to see Katrine taking a sip, and then making a face. 

“Don’t know how you can stomach it,” she says. 

“Didn’t ask you to drink it.” 

“I’m not talking about the drink.”

Geralt takes a very careful breath. His fingers twitch on the bartop. 

“You’re either stupid or he’s better than I thought.” 

Geralt grinds his teeth and looks away. “There is nothing to suggest he’s doing anything.”

“You haven’t found anything,” Katrine says, “that doesn’t say much. And it seems to me like you’re not especially motivated to look. Is it his smile? Or just the fact that he doesn’t treat you like the rest of us.” 

Geralt says nothing. 

“And then there is the old man. What’s your interest with him?”

His eyes snap towards her. 

“You’re not being exactly subtle.” She finishes the drink and starts to prepare another as she continues speaking, “You’re treating him like he’s the one I pointed you towards, not Jaskier. Do you think he’s connected? I’ve noticed that he’s been watching Jaskier too. Hmm. Wonder if they know each other.” 

It takes some effort to force his jaw to open enough to speak, his muscles locked with tension. “You’ve got the investigation under control, then... Where is my drink?” 

“You’re getting nowhere. You’re letting him fool you. Eyes open and you’re still falling for it.”

“Or,” Geralt grinds out, “I want him to think so.” 

Katrine blinks and laughs. “If you truly think that then you’ve fooled yourself just as much.” 

It is good, in the end, that she hadn’t bothered to give him his drink yet because he would’ve smashed if he had it. He’s too furious to stand and walk away, but he also can’t make a scene and draw anyone’s attention. 

So he’s stuck, letting Katrine throw words like daggers. 

He doesn’t hide his anger though, and whatever expression is on his face makes Katrine pause mid laugh and go quiet. It’s satisfying. 

“Look, I’m not saying this to make you mad—”

Geralt can’t manage a sceptical huff but his growling noise must have carried the message regardless. 

“No, really. I’m trying to—” Katrine shakes her head. “He’s got a speech mod, you know that right? You know what they can do?”

Geralt nods once. 

“So, you see? If we’re going to have any chance in hell, I can’t let his voice be the only one you’re listening to. Just think about it. If he’s got something on you— if he can _manipulate_ you, he’ll have one hell of a weapon. I could say that you don’t deserve to become a tool, and it would be true, but again, I’m more worried about being on the wrong side of your blade, and I’m starting to feel like that at his command, you’d strike.”

“He has no power over me.” 

“Are you sure about that? If he’d tell you that I’m dangerous— a danger to you, or to him. Wouldn’t you take action? Would you believe anyone on this ship above Jaskier’s word?” 

Geralt imagines it; unable to prevent the vision that comes while she speaks. Jaskier, eyes wide in fear. Jaskier, backing up, trying to run. Jaskier _begging_ — 

He allows nothing in his face to change, for only anger to be portrayed, but there must have been a flicker because Katrine says, a little exasperated, “You know nothing about him and _still_ you—”

“I know nothing about you, either.”

Her eyes flash. “You do. We’re of the same stock. We walked away from whoever told us what we were useful for— what we must do for them. We traded comfort and security for freedom.” She pauses to motion around them, encompassing the hall at large. “All of us here did. We’re unified in independence and selfishness. It’s the way we work. _Except for him._ Does his willingness to help others make him more trustworthy to you? More able to judge who is safe and who isn’t? If so, he succeeded. His selflessness is a cover, Geralt. It’s the only thing that makes fucking sense.” 

It is strange to hear his own thoughts externalized like this. That nagging suspicion in the back of his mind which flared up around Jaskier’s every action, and every word. Her voice is different, there is more fury there than Geralt ever bothered to apply. Distrust is a familiar road to walk; dry, dusty, empty. Exhausting at times, but well tread. He knows where it will take him.

Katrine’s words follow the very same route he’d already set out for himself. Every junction, every turn. It makes sense. It all makes so much fucking sense. Only her biting tone, the way bitterness seeps into her voice and turns it ugly, is what makes it just alien enough for Geralt to pause and take stock of the difference. 

It’s more than just her demeanor; fury borne from desperation borne from the perceived presence of a threat. It’s like she’s set the whole damn road on fire and is running through it, blaming the world for the burn.

She pauses, leans in closer, her eyes blazing with quiet intensity. “He is not supposed to be here. You know that. Everyone fucking knows it. So there has to be a reason; and maybe that reason is benign, or inconsequential to us. But are you willing to gamble your agency on it? Because people like him, they take it. With pretty words or clever threats, it doesn’t matter. You’ve lost yourself either way.”

Geralt almost laughs. He could’ve said the same thing— he’s sure he might have, at a different time in similar circumstances. It should’ve been the easiest thing to look her in the eye and nod. To agree and burn in it together. But there is something about that— something about how fucking familiar it all is, that makes him want to resist it. Take a step to the left and see where it takes him. Leave her to her running, her flames.

Katrine pushes his drink towards him. 

Geralt doesn’t take it. 

He stands up and throws a handful of Dock Tokens onto the bartop; enough to cover his breakfast and more. 

Her eyes follow their movement, a few coming to a stop against her hands, which are curled into fists. “You can’t walk away from this.”

“I’m not,” Geralt says, low. He isn’t. There is no walking away. But there might be different paths to take. “If you want to be useful, keep an eye on the old timer. He’s got secrets that matter.”

“And the Bard’s don’t?”

Geralt shrugs. “We’ll see.” 

He doesn’t let her argue back. He turns and leaves. 

Restless energy thrums under his skin. 

His hands are shaking slightly, not with anger but with undefinable potential, like he’s one step over the edge of a grav-track just a millisecond before gravity grips him and carries him up. That space of knowing and unknowing; the expectation of the fall, the rationalisation of the action based on the function of the track, that it is supposed to work as intended. And then that split second of fear in realising that the only thing from preventing you plunging to your death is trust. Trust that the technicians knew what they were doing. Trust that it has been guarded well enough that no one could’ve sabotaged it. Trust in the people around you who could take their chance and push you just slightly of course. 

Geralt doesn’t know who he is trusting now. He’s uncertain whether he’s made a decision at all, no matter how much it feels like he’s just taken some drastic action. An action with no guarantees of a favourable outcome. He is not sure where he is going, only that there is one path to avoid. Just for a little while. 

He has no idea where else to go— what would even be in the realm of possibility for him, at this point. But he’s in no state to figure it out now. Besides the shaking, his jaw is starting to ache with tension and his breathing grows quicker, like he’s preparing for a fight. The prospect sounds inviting, but he doesn’t want to be the one to break up Jaskier’s carefully constructed equilibrium. 

So Geralt goes where he always goes when he’s losing grasp on control and there is no one to beat into giving it back to him. 

Roach welcomes him with a warm huff and lays her head onto his shoulder.

The weight and pressure, combined with the soft quiet that fills her thoughts, is enough to bring Geralt down to baseline in just under thirty minutes. The rest of the time, it's just nice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait yall. I think I jinxed myself last time. So this time I'm not going to make any predictions as to when I will return. I'm trying to trade my time between the good omens wip and this one, but as time and energy is limited I might let myself just write to whats easiest. I had a big breakthrough with this chapter so maybe it will this one, but I'm again, not jinxing it. 
> 
> I'm gonna reply to all the comments I'd been guitly hiding from today as well! I just felt like I had to like, have something to post first before showing up with my thank you's and graditude before ghosting again. Any comments to this one will be really helpful in not letting uni block my creative motivation Again. 
> 
> (Don't take this as comments being a bother to me! I love them and they're super important for my motivation. I just have procrastination issues replying some times, but I reread them all the time.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:
> 
> After this chapter, this fic is going on hiatus until at least the corona pandemic is done and over with in my country. I'm in Europe and vaccines are coming, but if it takes months it takes months. My housemate just recently tested positive so I'm likely to get it as well, and as long as I don't know what next week looks like, I'm not going to commit myself to larger projects. I might be writing one shots and ficlets in the meantime, I might not. But for now, my wips are on hiatus. 
> 
> I hope this lil thing can bring you some joy. I really love this fic and want to continue it, but life is being a shit rn. Any positivity donated in the comments will be appreciated <33

If time had any relevance at all, it would have been past mid-afternoon by the time Jaskier flees the mess hall for higher ventures— namely, the bathrooms. 

Geralt, who had left Roach to her rest and kept an eye out on Jaskier’s process flitting about the increasingly disquieted travelers, signals for another drink— Katrine had left her shift, bless the gods — and waits for a respectable twenty minutes, until some undefined weariness sends him off on his feet. 

He plans to merely pass the bathrooms, not do anything so unnecessary as barge in and check on him, for the Dizan remains present in the halls and therefore could not have brought any danger to Jaskier. 

But when he nears the door, he is surprised to hear no sound of water running. Instead he hears a strange grumbling noise that turns out to be a soliloquy of tragic complaint: 

“Why does every modicum of trouble end up in front of my feet,” Jaskier rants to himself. Geralt knows this because he saw no one enter the room after Jaskier had slammed the door behind him. 

“How does any of my ability to _entertain_ qualify me as a judge, jury and arbiter?” 

Geralt imagines him standing in front of a mirror while continuing his ranting. 

He quietly opens the door and peeks in. His guess was correct. Jaskier stands with his hands curled around the edge of the counter, eyes staring intently into their own reflection. 

“I have done nothing to even suggest I lay claim to such responsibility. _Definitely_ when the issues are so trifling they could have figured it out themselves if both parties had simply counted to ten and thought for once.”

Geralt snorts. 

Jaskier turns at once. “Oh yes, _mock_ me, Geralt. That is smart of you to do.”

There is no surprise in his face, nor his voice. It is almost as if he’d expected Geralt to come. 

Geralt ignores the discomfort of having been found predictable, too focused on the particular expression of frustration Jaskier sends him. It is quite the marvel. 

“I don’t see you being all light shimmer and sea breeze of getting woken up every 30 minutes to solve a dispute,” Jaskier says hauntingly. “Again, where my involvement is utterly unnecessary and unwarranted besides.” 

“It’s void week, Jaskier,” Geralt says, lips twitching. “Those who can’t handle it either claw out their own eyes, or someone else’s.”

“I understand it is all challenging, and the lights certainly don’t help matters. But I maintain that a hall of people should not be woken up because someone pushed a bed one inch to the side.” 

Jaskier releases the counter with that statement, pushing back defiantly. He makes another noise of frustration and then slides down the wall to sit on the floor. He rubs his hands over his face, and with it exhaustion comes over him. There are deep lines underneath his eyes, and Geralt feels a pang of sympathy. 

“How many times have you traveled like this?”

Jaskier looks up at him, head tilted. “Garbage craft or void travel?”

Geralt shrugs.

Jaskier shrugs back. “Garbage craft, once or twice, for shorter trips in the lower tenements. Void travel, a few more, but in less… undesirable circumstances. No real luxury flight, by any means, but a daylight cycle at the least.”

Geralt doesn’t waste his time doubting the answer. By the way Jaskier’s eyes strain in the light, and the petulant arch in his shoulders, it is clear that he has little experience with accepting the circumstances of travel like this. After three or four times, there is nothing to do but accept the hell as it comes for you. Jaskier has been putting way too much energy into bettering their circumstances to have reached that point. 

“This is my 12th trip of this length,” Geralt tells him. “Done others that were a little shorter. Others still that were longer.” 

“Really?” Jaskier blows out a breath. “Is it always this bad?”

“This one has been particularly potent in smell, but other than that—” Geralt pauses to huff out a breath. “Out of twelve, there was only one time where we reached our destination without at least one casualty.” 

Jaskier blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Usually, one or two. Stabbings are common. All out brawls are rarer, though they happen. Highest count I’ve seen was twenty-five wounded, seven dead.” 

“Fucking shit.” Jaskier spits out the curse with intent. He looks a little sick, and a hand twitches toward Geralt, to reach out. Sympathy fills his eyes— likely imagining the horrors Geralt has withstood. 

Geralt doesn’t know what makes him continue briskly, in a low voice, “I was responsible for three of those.”

Jaskier’s eyes snap back to him. There is a moment where Geralt feels caught in his gaze. The silence seems to be endless. But then—

“Self-defence,” Jaskier says. There is no question in his voice. No inkling of hesitation. Must be the mod. There is no way he can be certain. 

Geralt answers the hidden question with a nod. “There is a reason I chose the grate, Jaskier.”

“It was safe. Easily defendable— ” He stills abruptly. A flush comes over his face. “And I asked you to leave it.”

“Hmm.”

“Christ,” Jaskier swears softly. He rubs a hand to the back of his neck and shakes his head. A few strands of hair fall in front of his face, hiding his eyes. “I basically asked you to follow me into the lion’s den.” He chuckles slightly. It is a bitter thing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted as much as I did.”

Geralt shrugs. He’s glad Jaskier doesn’t look at him when he says, “Turns out you tame lions.” 

He’s got enough time to make his expression neutral before Jaskier looks up and starts laughing. 

It is hard, to look in the face of that and not let it affect you. Geralt manages not to smile, but he is aware of a softness that must come over him because he can see Jaskier respond to it, his laugh turning from a loud sound of genuine hilarity to something more gentle. Like a shared joke, something just between them. 

Jaskier shakes his head again and ends in a sigh. “Well, no guarantees for the rest of the trip. Like you said, it’s void week. But I shall withhold any further complaining. If my sleep is the only victim of this journey, I suppose I’d be glad to make that sacrifice.” He yawns then, as if to punctuate the point. “I just hope I can stay awake enough to prevent a bloodbath. Wouldn’t be good to just pass out and sleep through it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “What you’re doing is working, that’s why they keep coming to you. The very first altercation that could’ve gone bad was on the platform. You diffused that, everyone saw it. This morning could’ve turned bad too, but you didn’t let it.”

“Oh my, this is starting to feel like you’re complimenting me,” Jaskier says with a grin. 

Geralt huffs …. “You made yourself into an anchor—”

“How poetic—”

“People rely on you. So if you lose your grip. If you aren’t stable. We’re all fucked.”

“—and there goes the artistry. Can we return to your particular brand of dire realism later? I’m sure there are more fires to put out. I’ve dared to leave them to their own devices for more than an hour.” Jaskier groans. “I know I promised not to complain, but by god, I didn't mean to adopt a whole crew of unstable criminals. I just meant to get out of Zevos.” 

Geralt carefully does not freeze at the last sentence— a hint of insight of Jaskier’s motives. A thread that could lead to the web of circumstance that led Jaskier to be here, interacting with him. And, if he’s lucky, Jaskier’s true intent is buried in the middle of that. 

But then Jaskier yawns again, and Geralt can force himself to pull back. It is idiotic. He is quite clearly in a vulnerable state. There is no better time to try and pry some information out of him. He doesn’t have the defenses to withstand it— or at least not as well as he usually would. 

And it is that exact reason, which should spur Geralt into action, that makes him so reticent to do so. Deep underneath all the lingering layers of suspicion, doubt, paranoia and everything else that Katrine drew over him, lies the ever increasing certainty that this is looking like a lost cause. Because all Geralt wants to do is push Jaskier onto a bed.

Not to— well. Not now, at least. 

He just looks so fucking tired, and what Geralt says was true, regardless of Jaskier’s underlying motives. They all need him, if they want to make it through this journey intact. 

A voice in the back of his head says that Katrine would likely kill him, had she heard these thoughts. He remembers her anger and fury, and can’t get himself to regret it. 

“Never solve other people's problems,” Geralt tells him, and then contradicts his own words by offering Jaskier a hand. 

Jaskier smiles and takes it. 

The warmth lingers when he lets go. 

“Golden advice from a witcher,” Jaskier says, “he who solves problems around the galaxies.” 

“That is my job, not a service.”

“You still help those who call for it.” 

“I get paid to do so.” 

Geralt lets the argument distract Jaskier, walking out of the bathroom, expecting him to follow. 

He does, blindly so, and only seems to realise where Geralt has led him, when he faces Geralt’s bunk. 

“No, Geralt. Come on. I can’t—” 

“You need to sleep.” 

Jaskier crosses his arms. “I’m serious. I’m not your problem—” He stills, and his posture shifts from defensive to something else. Eyes widening a little, jaw tensing. “You’re not doing this because— because I—” He huffs a breath and straightens. “You don’t owe me. You know that right. I did what I did without any— You don’t need to—”

Geralt almost snorts. Geralt owes him, of course he does, but arguing that particular point won’t get them anywhere. So he shakes his head and says, “I can’t sleep on the grate.” 

“What do you—”

“There is something in this ship that makes me unable to sleep anywhere but here,” Geralt explains patiently. “It forced me to leave the grate. It forced me to join you.” 

Realisation starts to set in, washing over Jaskier’s face. “You need it to be safe. You need the lions to stay tame.” 

“All of us do. So, lie down. I’m going to stand in front of the door.” 

“... and if there is something going on that people want to confront a witcher for to get to me, then it might be worth my time,” Jaskier finishes slowly, and then he flashes a grin. “We’ll make a good team, keeping the masses in check.”

Geralt hums. He stands there, waiting until Jaskier actually lies down. Jaskier rolls his eyes as he does so. 

“Go, you twit,” Jaskier says, around a yawn. “Wake me up before dinner is gone.” 

“They’ll save you some.” Geralt is sure about that. 

Part of him wants to stay, stand guard here, in the quiet of the room— away from lions of all shapes and sizes. 

But he knows he can’t. He takes one long look at Jaskier lying there, back turned towards him, limbs akimbo underneath the thin blanket, and curls dripping off the pillow. And then he leaves. 

He’s about to close the door behind him when he hears: 

“Geralt?”

A pause. 

“Thank you.”

The door falls closed. 

Geralt puts his back against it and allows himself a deep sigh. 

It takes a certain amount of travel experience for individuals to accept the inherent and inevitable fact that they’re going to be fucked for the duration of the journey. Geralt had known that the moment he stepped on the docking bay. 

Geralt doesn’t need more experience with Jaskier to know that the same holds true here. He’s fucked. Katrine be damned, but she was right on one count. Jaskier got him. 

Now it's just a wait until the consequences of his failure reveal themselves. 

Listening to the soft snoring behind the door, Geralt finds it hard to mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. I'm ok rn, don't have symptoms, but shit is stressful as hell. I'm hoping that at some point writing will become an escape for me again, but at this point (certainly with the pressure of wip posting), its an additional stressor. I'm hoping by letting myself take this off my plate rn, I might be able to write one shots or ficlets again, but no guarantees there either. 
> 
> Stay safe, wear a mask, and thank yall for sticking with me til this point. Hopefully ill see you again once the world is less on fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so you read that. If you have questions, mood. Before I'm gonna throw myself into weeks of worldbuilding, I wanna be certain this is actually a thing I'm gonna write. The basic idea this AU would be that give or take 500 years ago, humanoids (humans, dwarves, some elves) fled the earth because the magnetic poles were going to be switching and you did not want to be there while that happens. 
> 
> But, when the humanoids sought refuge in space, they were not the only ones on board. 
> 
> Monsters, creatures, ghosts, ect have become a pest across the galaxy, courtesy of those annoying earthlings who didn't clean out their cargo holds in their haste. Witchers, or as they are called Ancienthunters, are the feared yet necessary. They're extensively modified humans (cyborg, you ask? hmm, who knows) who basically function as traveling pest control. 
> 
> Aside from monsters, sorcerers and mages found their own ways off Earth, and the universe's introduction to the "ancient ways" did not go smoothly. 
> 
> If any of that caught ur fancy let me know, because I have one GO wip in process, and another bunch of long fic ideas, and I gotta keep my workload to two. So it will either be this one, or any of my other ideas rumbling abt. Lemme know if you're down for gays in space!


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